1 


H.  M.  CALDWELL  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  BOSTON      jt      & 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1858, 

Bv  Wiley  &  Halsted, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United 

States  for  1.  e  Southern  District  of  New  York 

(Renewed  in  1S86) 


CONTENTS. 


i. 

BEAUTY. 

PAGB 

The  Perception  of  the  Beautiful. 

Perfect  Taste 4 

Taste  as  distinguished  from  judgment, ....  5 

Cultivation  of  Taste, 7 

Typical  Beauty. 

Infinity, 11 

Unity, 15 

Repose 18 

Symmetry, 23 

Purity, 25 

Moderation 27 

Vital  Beauty. 

Evidences  of  Happiness  in  the  Organic  Creation,  33 

Healthy  vital  energy  in  Plants, 35 

Beauty  in  Animals, 35 

Human  Beauty, 38 

The  operation  of  the  Mind  upon  the  Body,     .     .  40 

Passions  which  mar  Human  Beauty 44 

The  Ideal, 47 

The  Beauty  of  Repose  and  Felicity,  how  consist- 
ent with  the  Ideal 49 

v 


VI  CONTENTS. 


Ideality  predicable  of  all  living  creatures,  ...  50 

Purity  of  Taste 51 

II. 

NATURE. 
The  Sky. 

The  peculiar  adaptation  of  the  Sky  to  the  pleas- 
ing and  teaching  of  Man 56 

The  carelessness  with  which  its  lessons  are  re- 
ceived   57 

Many  of  our  ideas  of  the  Sky  altogether  conven- 
tional,         57 

The  idea  of  God's  immediate  presence  impressed 

upon  us  b}r  the  Sky, 59 

Clouds. 

Variation  of  their  character  at  different  elevations,  61 

Extent  of  the  upper  cloud  region, 61 

Characteristics  of  the  upper  Clouds,  ....  62 

Wordsworth's  description  of  these  Clouds,      .  64 

The  central  Cloud  region, 66 

The  Clouds  of  Salvator  and  Poussin,      ...  67 

Clouds  as  seen  from  an  isolated  Mountain,      .  70 

Sunset  in  Tempest, 72 

Serene  Midnight, 72 

Sunrise  on  the  Alps 73 

Hain  Clouds 74 

Marked  difference  in  color,  . 74 

Value  to  the  Painter  of  the  Rain  Cloud,      .     .  75 

The  intense  blue  of  the  Sky  after  rain,   ...  76 

The  Campagna  of  Rome  after  a  storm,  ...  77 
Typical  Beauty  as  perceived  by  the  Greeks  in 

Nature 79 


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Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Fribourg  in  Switzerland, 112 

Ascent  of  the   Montanvert  from  the  valley  of 

Chamouni, 117 

The  glaciers, 118 

Is  this  the  Earth's  prime,  or  is  it  only  the  wreck 

of  Paradise  ? 121 

Influence  of  natural  scenery  on  character,  .     .     .  127 

Poetical  influence  of  Hills  and  Mountains,      .     .  128 

Mountain  gloom 129 

Fertility  succeeds  destruction, 134 

Consecrated  Mountains 135 

Deaths  of  Aaron  and  Moses, 136 

The  Mount  of  Transfiguration, 145 

Trees. 

Laws  common  to  all  forest  trees, 149 

Care  of  Nature  to  conceal  uniformity 150 

Characters  of  natural  leafage, 151 

Termination  of  Trees  in  symmetrical  curves,      .  152 

Gracefulness  of  Trees  in  plains, 154 

The  Pine  Tree  as  described  by  Shakspeare,    .     .155 

The  Olive  Tree, 156 

Grass. 

The  Meadow  Grass 159 

Symbolical  of  humility  and  cheerfulness,  .     .     .  161 

The  utility  of  Grass, 162 

III. 

ARCHITECTURE. 

Architecture. 

Considered  as  a  Fine  Art 169 

The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture, 170 

The  Lamp  of  Sacrifice, 170 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

The  Lamp  of  Truth, 175 

The  Lamp  of  Power 176 

The  Lamp  of  Beauty, 182 

The  Lamp  of  Life 193 

The  Lamp  of  Memory 195 

The  Lamp  of  Obedience, 200 

European  Architecture  derived  through  Greece 

and  Rome, 206 

Doric  and  Corinthian  Orders, 207 

The  work  of  the  Lombards  in  Architecture,  .     .  207 

Venice, 208 

Commercial  interest  at  first  the  highest  aim  of 

Venice 211 

The  Venice  of  modern  fiction, 212 

Venice  restored  from  its  ruins, 213 

The  islands  on  which  the  city  was  built,     .     .     .  214 

St.  Mark's, 216 

The  interior  of  the  Church, 219 

The  nobleness  and  sacredness  of  color,      .     .     .  220 

Gothic  Archictecture 231 

Characteristics    or    Moral    Elements    of    the 

Gothic, 234 

Savageness, 234 

The  Grotesque, 237 

Contrast    between    Northern    and    Southern 

countries, 242 

Gothic  windows  and  roofs, 245 

The  Gothic  in  Domestic  Architecture,   .     .     .  249 

The  Rennaissance 251 

Early  Renaissance, 251 

Effect   of  the  sudden  enthusiasm  for  classic 

architecture 255 

The  use  of  marble  in  Architecture 256 


CONTENTS. 

IV. 
SCULPTURE. 

PAGE 

Sculptors  of  Egypt  and  Nineveh 262 

Natural  forms  suitable  for  Sculpture,    ....  262 

The  uses  to  which  Sculpture  has  been  perverted,  271 

The  Torso  of  the  Vatican, 276 

Michael  Angelo, 279 

Bandinelli  and  Canova 280 

The  Laocoon,  .                280 

No  herculean  form  spiritual, 286 

Michael  Angelo's  snow  statue 288 

How  are  we  to  get  our  men  of  genius  ?    .     .     .  290 


PREFACE. 


A  Preface  need  not,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
be  an  apology.  Yet,  an  apology  would  be  offered 
for  "  Selections "  from  Ruskin's  Works,  were 
those  valuable  works  accessible  to  readers  in 
general.  Being  voluminous  and  expensive,  they 
are  beyond  the  means  of  many  who  could  ap- 
preciate and  highly  enjoy  them.  Moreover, 
some  of  the  topics  discussed  are  merely  local 
(English),  and  not  specially  interesting  to  the 
American  public.  A  rich  field,  however,  re- 
mains, from  which  these  selections  have  been 
carefully  culled,  and  methodically  arranged  to 
form  a  book  complete  in  itself.  For  the  choice 
and  arrangement  alone,  is  the  editor  responsible; 
the  Author  speaks  for  himself. 

L.  C.  T. 

Princeton,  N.  J. 


NOTICE 

OF 

JOHN   RUSKIN   AND   HIS   WORKS. 


Although  novelty  is  generally  a  source  of 
pleasure,  yet  what  is  new  sometimes  meets  with 
opposition,  merely  because  it  is  new. 

About  twenty  years  ago  a  book  appeared  in 
London,  entitled,  "  Modern  Painters :  By  a 
Graduate  of  Oxford;"  the  main  object  of  which 
was,  to  vindicate  the  reputation  of  the  landscape- 
painter,  Turner,  whose  pictures  had  been  ruth- 
lessly assailed  by  the  Reviewers. 

The  author  confesses  that  the  book  originated 
"  in  indignation  at  the  shallow  and  false  criticism 
of  the  periodicals  of  the  day  on  the  works  of  the 
great  living  artist." 

And  who  was  the  presumptuous  "  Graduate," 
who  thus  threw  down  the  gauntlet,  and  defied 
the  mighty  host  of  Reviewers  ?  A  young  man 
unknown  to  fame !  A  mere  fledgling  from  the 
University ! 


XIV     JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS. 

Yet  in  his  book  there  was  a  bold  originality, 
an  uncompromising  independence,  quite  start- 
ling to  the  lovers  of  the  old,  beaten  track — the 
devotees  to  precedent.  The  daring  champion 
of  Turner,  not  contented  with  asserting  the 
painter's  claims  to  universal  admiration,  an- 
nounced, somewhat  authoritatively,  certain  prin- 
ciples of  Art,  neither  derived  from  Alison  nor 
from  the  Royal  Academy. 

The  "  Graduate  "  says,  "  when  public  taste 
seems  plunging  deeper  and  deeper  into  degrada- 
tion, day  by  day,  and  when  the  press  universally 
exerts  such  power  as  it  possesses,  to  direct  the 
feeling  of  the  nation  more  completely  to  all  that 
is  theatrical,  affected,  and  false  in  Art;  while  it 
vents  its  ribald  buffooneries  on  the  most  exalted 
truth,  and  the  highest  ideal  of  landscape,  that 
this  or  any  other  age  has  ever  witnessed,  it  be- 
comes the  imperative  duty  of  all  who  have  any 
perception  or  knowledge  of  what  is  really  great 
in  Art,  and  any  desire  for  its  advancement  in 
England,  to  come  fearlessly  forward,  regardless 
of  such  individual  interests  as  are  likely  to  be 
injured  by  the  knowledge  of  what  is  good  and 
right,  to  declare"  and  demonstrate,  wherever  they 
exist,  the  essence  and  the  authority  of  the  Beau- 
tiful and  the  True." 

The  "  Graduate  "  fearlessly  asserts  that  the  old 
masters  were  not  true  to  Nature,  and  claims  to 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  AND  HIS   WORKS.       XV 

be  capable  of  judging  of  these  matters,  for  the 
very  good  reason,  namely,  that  he  has  been  de- 
voted from  his  youth  to  the  laborious  study  of 
practical  art;  and,  moreover,  that  whatever  he 
affirms  of  the  old  schools  of  landscape-painting 
has  been  "  founded  on  a  familiar  acquaintance 
with  every  important  work  of  Art,  from  Antwerp 
to  Naples." 

He,  however,  modestly  apologizes  for  the  im- 
perfection of  his  first  book,  and  keeps  back  a 
part  of  it  from  the  public  for  more  mature  re- 
flection, and  for  careful  revision. 

The  reviewers,  who  had  so  severely  handled 
the  landscape  painter,  now  pounced  upon  the 
painter's  fiery  advocate,  who  had  challenged 
them  to  the  encounter. 

Undaunted  by  their  fulminations,  "  the  Gradu- 
ate "  comes  out  with  a  second  edition  of  "  Mod- 
ern Painters." 

"Convinced  of  the  truth,"  says  he,  "and  therefore 
assured  of  the  ultimate  prevalence  and  victory  of  the 
principles  which  I  have  advocated,  and  equally  confident 
that  the  strength  of  the  cause  must  give  weight  to  the 
strokes  of  even  the  weakest  of  its  defenders,  I  permitted 
myself  to  yield  to  a  somewhat  hasty  and  hot-headed  de- 
sire of  being,  at  whatever  risk,  in  the  thick  of  the  fire,  and 
begun  the  contest  with  a  part,  and  that  the  weakest  and 
least  considerable  part,  of  the  forces  at  my  disposal.  And 
I  now  find  the  volume  thus  boldly  laid  before  the  public, 
in  a  position  much  resembling  that  of  the  Royal  Sovereign 


XVI     JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS. 

at  Trafalgar,  receiving,  unsupported,  the  broadsides  of 
half  the  enemy's  fleet,  while  unforeseen  circumstances 
have  hitherto  prevented,  and  must  yet  for  a  time  prevent, 
my  heavier  ships  of  the  line  from  taking  any  part  in  the 
action.  I  watched  the  first  moment  of  the  struggle  with 
some  anxiety  for  the  solitary  vessel, — an  anxiety  which  I 
have  now  ceased  to  feel, — for  the  flag  of  truth  waves 
brightly  through  the  smoke  of  the  battle,  and  my  antago- 
nists, wholly  intent  on  the  destruction  of  the  leading  ship, 
have  lost  their  position,  and  exposed  themselves  in  de- 
fenceless disorder  to  the  attack  of  the  following  columns." 

The  enthusiasm  of  a  man  of  genius  appears  to 
the  multitude  like  madness.  The  fervor  of  his 
imagination  and  the  intensity  of  his  emotions, 
do,  indeed,  prevent  him  at  times  from  perceiv- 
ing clearly,  not  only  what  is  for  his  own  interest, 
but,  what  he  would  more  earnestly  deprecate, 
for  the  interest  of  the  cause  which  he  zealously 
advocates.  Thus  was  it  with  the  "  Graduate," 
when,  stung  to  the  quick  like  Byron,  like  him, 
he  retorted  upon  the  "  Scotch  Reviewer." 

"  Writers  like  the  present  critic  of  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine deserve  the  respect  due  to  honest,  hopeless,  helpless 
imbecility.  There  is  something  exalted  in  the  innocence 
of  their  feeble-mindedness;  one  cannot  suspect  them  of 
partiality,  for  it  implies  feeling  ;  nor  of  prejudice,  for  it 
implies  some  previous  acquaintance  with  their  subject.  I 
do  not  know  that  even  in  this  age  of  charlatanry,  I  could 
point  to  a  more  barefaced  instance  of  imposture  on  the 
simplicity  of  the  public,  than  the  insertion  of  these  pieces  of 
criticism  in  a  respectable  periodical.     We  are  not  insulted 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  AND  HIS   WORKS,    xvil 

with  opinions  on  music  from  persons  ignorant  of  its 
notes;  nor  with  treatises  on  philology  by  persons  unac- 
quainted with  the  alphabet;  but  here  is  page  after  page  of 
criticism,  which  one  may  read  from  end  to  end,  looking 
for  something  which  the  author  knows,  and  finding  noth- 
ing. Not  his  own  language,  for  he  has  to  look  in  his 
dictionary,  hj  his  own  confession,  for  a  word  (chrysoprase) 
occurring  in  one  of  the  most  important  chapters  of  the 
Bible;  not  the  commonest  traditions  of  the  schools,  for 
he  does  not  know  why  Poussin  was  called  '  learned;'  nci; 
the  most  simple  canons  of  art,  for  he  prefers  Lee  to 
Gainsborough;  not  the  most  ordinary  facts  of  Nature,  for 
we  find  him  puzzled  by  the  epithet  '  silver,"  as  applied  to 
the  orange-blossom — evidently  never  having  seen  any- 
thing silvery  about  an  orange  in  his  life,  except  a  spoon. 

"  Nay  he  leaves  us  not  to  conjecture  his  calibre  from 
internal  evidence  ;  he  candidly  tells  us,  that  he  has  been 
studying  trees  only  for  the  last  week,  and  bases  his  critical 
remarks  chiefly  on  his  practical  experience  of  birch. 

"  What  is  Christopher  North  about  ?  Does  he  receive 
his  critiques  from  Eton  or  Harrow, — based  on  the  experi- 
ence of  a  week's  bird's-nesting  and  its  consequences  ? 
How  low  must  Art  and  its  interests  sink,  when  the  public 
mind  is  inadequate  to  the  detection  of  this  effrontery  of 
incapacity.  In  all  kindness  to  Maga,  we  warn  her,  that 
though  the  nature  of  this  work  precludes  us  from  devot- 
ing space  to  the  exposure,  there  may  come  a  time  when 
the  public  shall  be  themselves  able  to  distinguish  ribaldry 
from  reasoning,  and  may  require  some  better  and  higher 
qualifications  in  their  critics  of  art,  than  the  experience  of 
a  school-boy,  and  the  capacities  of  a  buffoon." 

"  Moderation,"  though  subsequently  highly 
commended  by  our  author,  is  not  the  governing 


XV111  JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS. 

characteristic  of  poets  or  of  painters,  especially 
when  their  "  eyes  are  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling'' 
with  either  inspiration  or  anger. 

The  second  volume  of  "  Modern  Painters" 
was  not  issued  till  the  first  had  passed  through 
several  editions.  The  author  still  chooses  to  ap- 
pear only  as  the  "  Graduate  of  Oxford." 

The  main  topic  of  this  second  volume  is  the 
nature  of  Beauty,  and  its  influence  on  the  human 
mind. 

Again,  the  novelty  and  boldness  of  the  writer's 
views  startled  and  irritated  the  ice-bound  advo- 
cates of  precedent.  Though  no  longer  treated 
by  the  Reviewers  with  unmitigated  contempt, 
he  was  still  subjected  to  the  lash  of  criticism. 

The  banner,  with  the  defiant  inscription, 
Judex  damnatur  cum  nocens  absolvitor,  was  again 
"  hung  out"  at  Edinburgh,  but  the  "  Graduate  " 
probably  quailed  as  little  before  it  as  Birnam 
Wood  quailed  before  the  banners  of  Dunsinane. 
However,  this  second  volume  could  not  fail  to 
elicit  warm  and  earnest  admiration.  The  North 
British  Review  pronounced  it  "  a  very  extraor- 
dinary and  delightful  book,  full  of  truth  and 
goodness,  of  power  and  beauty,"  and  "  what  is 
more  and  better  than  all, — everywhere,  through- 
out this  work,  we  trace  evidences  of  a  deep  rev- 
erence and  a  godly  fear, — a  perpetual  though 
subdued   acknowledgment    of  the  Almighty,  as 


JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS.     XIX 

the  sum  and  substance,  the  beginning  and  the 
ending  of  all  truth,  of  all  power,  of  all  goodness, 
and  of  all  beauty." 

Even  the  Edinburgh  Review  was  compelled  to 
acknowledge  "  Modern  Painters  "  as  "  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  works  on  art  which  has  appeared 
in  our  time." 

Discarding  the  incognito,  the  "  Graduate  "  next 
appears  before  the  public  in  a  work  entitled 
"  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  by  John 
Ruskin,  Author  of  Modern  Painters."  The  fan- 
ciful title  and  the  reputation  already  acquired  by 
the  author  of  Modern  Painters,  at  once  drew  at- 
tention to  this  learned  and  philosophical  treatise 
on  Architecture.  It  was  discovered  that  the 
works  of  Mr.  Ruskin  "  must  be  read  ;"  they  must 
be  discussed  ;  they  must  be  "  weighed  and  con- 
sidered." He  had  gained  a  standing-place,  and 
possessed  power  enough  to  move,  if  not  the  world, 
at  least  a  portion  of  its  wisest  and  best. 

Three  other  eloquent  and  beautiful  volumes 
on  Architecture,  entitled  "  The  Stones  of  Ven- 
ice," were  issued  from  time  to  time,  while  the 
promised  volumes  to  complete  "  Modern  Paint- 
ers "  were  still  delayed.  This  delay  was  chiefly 
owing  to  the  necessity  under  which  the  writer 
felt  himself,  of  obtaining  as  many  memoranda  as 
possible  of  mediaeval  buildings  in  Italy  and  Nor- 
mandy, now  in  process  oj  destruction,  before  that 


XX      JOHN  RUSKW  AND  HIS   WORKS. 

destruction  should  be  consummated  by  the  re- 
storer or  revolutionist.  His  "  whole  time,"  he 
says,  "  had  been  lately  occupied  in  taking  draw- 
ings from  one  side  of  buildings,  of  which  masons 
were  knocking  down  the  other."  These  memo- 
randa, obtained  in  every  case  from  personal  ob- 
servation, had  been  collected  at  various  times 
during  seventeen  years.  Not  satisfied,  however, 
with  these  occasional  visits  to  the  sea-girt  city 
Mr.  Ruskin  went  again  to  Venice,  in  1849,  to 
examine  not  only  every  one  of  the  older  palaces, 
stone  by  stone,  but  every  fragment  throughout  the 
city  which  afforded  any  clue  to  the  formation  of 
its  styles. 

He  says  :  "  My  taking  the  pains  so  to  examine 
what  I  had  to  describe,  was  a  subject  of  grave 
surprise  to  my  Italian  friends." 

"  Three  years'  close  and  incessant  labor  to  the  exami- 
nation of  the  chronology  of  the  architecture  of  Venice  ; 
two  long  winters  being  wholly  spent  in  the  drawing  of  de- 
tails on  the  spot  ;  and  yet  I  see  constantly  that  architects 
who  pass  three  or  four  days  in  a  gondola,  going  up  and 
down  the  grand  canal,  think  that  their  first  impressions 
are  as  likely  to  be  true  as  my  patiently  wrought  conclu- 
sions." 

From  these  careful  studies  and  measurements, 
drawings  were  made  by  Mr.  Ruskin  to  illustrate 
"  The  Stones  of  Venice,"  and  afterwards  en- 
graved in  England  by  the  best  artists.     Besides'"' 


JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS.     XXI 

the  fine  illustrations  which  adorn  those  beautiful 
volumes,  Mr.  Ruskin  prepared  a  separate  work, 
consisting  entirely  of  engravings  from  drawings 
which  could  not  be  reduced  to  the  size  of  an 
octavo  volume  without  loss  of  accuracy  in  de- 
tail. These  magnificent  engravings  were  pub- 
lished in  London,  by  subscription,  in  twelve  parts, 
folio  imperial  size,  at  the  price  of  one  guinea 
each.  They  were  fac-similes  of  Mr.  Ruskin's 
drawings,  and  beautifully  colored.*  The  "  Seven 
Lamps  of  Architecture "  and  "  The  Stones  of 
Venice "  would  alone  have  placed  Mr.  Ruskin 
among  the  very  first  writers  on  Art  that  England 
has  ever  nurtured. 

The  subtle  critic  of  Art  then  turned  aside,  by 
way  of  episode,  and  wrote  a  feuilleto?i  "  On  the 
Construction  of  Sheepfolds."  Graceful,  pictur- 
esque, rustic  sheepfolds  ?  By  no  means.  The 
versatile  "  Graduate  of  Oxford "  must  give  his 
views  on  a  subject  which  at  that  time  was  agitat- 
ing the  minds  and  employing  the  pens  of  some 
of  the  ablest  thinkers  in  Great  Britain,  namely, 
'  The  Church  ;"  its  character,  authority,  teach- 
ing, government,  and  discipline.    It  was  a  "  Tract 

*  All  Mr.  Ruskin's  works  with  the  exception  of  two 
volumes  of  "  The  Stones  of  Venice,"  and  these  large  illus- 
trations, have  been  published  in  this  country  by  John 
Wiley  &  Sons,  53  East  Tenth  Street,  New  York. 


XXU   JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS   WORKS. 

for  the  Times,"  but  in  direct  opposition  to  the 
Tracts  of  his  venerable  alma  mater. 

To  this  bold  pamphlet  was  prefixed  the  fol- 
lowing characteristic  "advertisement:" — 

"  Many  persons  will  probably  find  fault  with  me  for 
publishing  opinions  which  are  not  new  :  but  I  shall  bear 
this  blame  contentedly,  believing  that  opinions  on  this 
subject  could  hardly  be  just  if  they  were  not  1800  years 
old.  Others  will  blame  me  for  making  proposals  which 
are  altogether  new  ;  to  whom  I  would  answer,  that  things 
in  these  days  seem  not  so  far  right  but  that  they  may  be 
mended.  And  others  will  simply  call  the  opinions  false 
and  the  proposals  foolish — to  whose  good  will,  if  they 
take  it  in  hand  to  contradict  me,  I  must  leave  what  I  have 
written,  having  no  purpose  of  being  drawn,  at  present, 
into  religious  controversy.  If,  however,  any  should  ad- 
mit the  truth,  but  regret  the  tone  of  what  I  have  said,  I 
can  only  pray  them  to  consider  how  much  less  harm  is 
done  in  the  world  by  ungraceful  boldness,  than  by  untime- 
ly fear. 

Whatever  were  the  "  opinions"  thus  promul- 
gated, there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  author's 
motive  was  a  sincere,  earnest  desire  to  do  good. 

Another  pamphlet  from  the  same  prolific  pen, 
entitled  "  Pre-Raphaelitism,"  caused  great  ex- 
citement among  the  artists,  as  well  as  the  critics. 

At  the  close  of  the  first  volume  of  Modern 
Painters,  Mr.  Ruskin  gave  the  following  advice 
to  the  young  artists  of  England: — "  They  should 
go  to  nature  in  all  singleness  of  heart,  and  walk 


JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS,  xxiii 

with  her  laboriously  and  trustingly,  having  no 
other  thought  but  how  best  to  penetrate  her 
meaning;  rejecting  nothing,  selecting  nothing, 
and  scorning  nothing."  This  he  quotes  in  the 
Preface  to  his  Pre-Raphaelitism,  and  says, — 

"  Advice  which,  whether  bad  or  good,  involved  infinite 
labor  and  humiliation  in  the  following  it;  and  was  there- 
fore, for  the  most  part,  rejected.  It  has,  however,  been 
carried  out,  to  the  very  letter,  by  a  group  of  men  who, 
for  their  reward,  have  been  assailed  with  the  most  scur- 
rilous abuse  which  I  ever  recollect  seeing  issue  from  the 
public  press.  I  have,  therefore,  thought  it  due  to  them 
(the  Pre-Raphaelites)  to  contradict  the  directly  false  state- 
ments which  have  been  made  respecting  their  works;  and 
to  point  out  the  kind  of  merit  which,  however  deficient  in 
some  respects,  those  works  possess  beyond  the  possibility 
of  dispute." 

Mr.  Ruskin  here  says  no  more  than  Schiller 
had  said  before  him: — 

"  With  genius,  Nature  is  bound  in  eternal  alliance, — 
Whatever  mind  has  vowed,  piously  Nature  performs." 

Then  why  was  the  hue  and  cry  raised  against 
his  "  Pre-Raphaelitism  "?  Sneers  are  not  argu- 
ments. For  the  want  of  arguments  was  the  Re- 
viewer reduced  to  the  following  absurdity: — "  If 
there  were  a  'Burchell'  among  painters,  he 
would  in  the  author's  presence  cry,  Fudge  ! 
Nonsense  !" 

This  would-be    astute    critic,    however,    like 


XXIV  JOHN  RUSK  IN  AND  HIS    WORKS. 

many  who  had   gone  before   him,   cried  "  mad 
dog"  in  vain.     Mr.  Ruskin  still  lives. 

The  third  volume  of  Modern  Painters  was  is- 
sued ten  years  after  the  publication  of  the  two 
first  volumes.  Those  two  volumes,  as  has  al- 
ready been  mentioned,  were  written  to  check  the 
attacks  upon  Turner.  Little  did  the  "  Grad- 
uate" then  foresee  what  a  range  his  spirit  would 
take,  after  its  first  venturous  flight! 

"The  check  was  partially  given,  but  too  late;  Turner 
was  seized  by  painful  illness  soon  after  the  second  volume 
appeared;  his  works  towards  the  close  of  the  year  1845, 
showed  a  conclusive  failure  of  power;  and  I  saw  that 
nothing  remained  for  me  to  write,  but  his  epitaph." 

No  one  can  fail  to  admire  the  generous,  en- 
thusiastic devotion  of  Mr.  Ruskin  to  his  favorite 
artist;  but,  as  few  of  Turner's  paintings  have 
reached  this  country,  his  eloquent  descriptions 
of  them,  and  subtle  criticisms,  would  not  be 
generally  interesting,  and  have  therefore  been 
omitted  in  the  "  Selections"  from  his  Works. 

Engravings,  however,  from  many  of  Turner's 
pictures  are  well  known  among  us,  and  highly 
prized  by  genuine  lovers  of  the  Beautiful. 
Among  these  engravings  the  Illustrations  to 
Rogers's  Italy  have  been  universally  admired. 

In  November,  1853,  Mr.  Ruskin  delivered 
four  Lectures   in    Edinburgh,   on   Architecture 


JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS.     XXV 

and  Painting;  which  has  since  been  published 
in  a  beautifully  illustrated  volume. 

He  thought  himself  happy,  he  says,  in  his 
first  Lecture,  'to  address  the  citizens  of  Edin- 
burgh on  the  subject  of  Architecture;  and  yet, 
with  his  usual  boldness  and  disregard  of  con- 
sequences to  himself  personally,  he  launched 
forth  into  a  complete  tirade  against  the  Greek 
Architecture  of  that  beautiful  city.  No  doubt 
Mr.  Ruskin  remembered  with  some  asperity  the 
castigations  of  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  and 
knowing  that  he  was  now  strong  enough  to 
chastise  the  chastisers,  he  laid  it  on  without 
mercy.  Yet  he  is  too  earnest  and  too  honest  a 
man  to  say  one  word  that  he  does  not  firmly 
believe  to  be  for  the  advancement  of  noble  Art. 

The  Fourth  Volume  of  "  Modern  Painters"  is 
one  of  his  ablest  works.  His  versatile  mind 
here  grapples  with  Science  as  successfully  as  it 
has  hitherto  done  with  Art.  Among  the  Alps 
and  their  glaciers,  he  would  be  a  fit  companion 
for  the  learned  Guyot. 

In  pursuit  of  his  investigations  he  had  stood 
"  where  the  black  thundercloud  was  literally 
dashing  itself  in  his  face,  while  the  blue  hills 
seen  through  its  rents  were  thirty  miles  away." 

Indefatigable  in  the  pursuit  of  that  branch  of 
Art,  which  "  in  all  his  lovings  is  the  love,"  Mr. 
Ruskin  has  lately  written  a  book  for  young  per- 


XXVlJO/fAT  RUSK  IN  AND  HIS    WORKS. 

sons,  entitled  "  The  Elements  of  Drawing,  in 
three  Letters  to  Beginners."  He  always  writes 
con  amore,  but  never  more  so  than  in  this  valua- 
ble little  treatise.  Mr.  Ruskin  is  not  only  a 
practical  artist,  but  he  has  also  had  much  ex- 
perience in  teaching,  being  employed  at  present 
as  head-teacher  of  a  class  in  Drawing,  in  the 
Working  Men's  College,  45  Great  Ormond 
Street,  London. 

"The  Political  Economy  of  Art,"  the  last 
published  work  by  Mr.  Ruskin,  is  the  substance 
(with  additions)  of  two  Lectures  delivered  at 
Manchester,  July  10th  and  13th,  1857. 

The  great  "  Art  Treasures  Exhibition,"  at 
Manchester,  had  brought  together  a  splendid 
collection  of  pictures  from  the  galleries,  public 
and  private,  of  the  British  kingdom,  and  it  was 
a  fine  opportunity  for  Mr.  Ruskin  to  address  the 
lovers  of  art  in  behalf  of  artists  and  working- 
men.  He  did  so,  with  wisdom,  justice,  and 
deep  feeling;  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  influence 
of  those  lectures  will  not  be  confined  to  his  own 
country. 

As  a  Christian  Philosopher,  Mr.  Ruskin  de- 
servedly ranks  with  the  "  judicious"  Hooker, 
the  eloquent  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  the  "  divine" 
Herbert.  A  devout  spirit  animates  and  inspires 
all    his  works.     In  the  lowly  cottage    and    the 


JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS.  XXV11 

lofty  cathedral,  in  the  smiling  valley  and  in  the 
sublime  mountain-top,  he  has  an  ever-realizing 
sense  of  the  presence  of  God  ;  and  acknowl- 
edges that  divine  presence,  not  with  light  words, 
but  with  words  of  solemn  import; — not  as  the 
God  of  Nature  alone,  but  as  the  Almighty 
Father  and  Friend  revealed  in  the  life-giving 
gospel  of  Jesus  Christ. 

The  most  striking  characteristic  of  Mr.  Rus- 
kin,  next  to  his  deep  religious  sentiments,  is  his 
intense  love  of  Nature: — 

"  Where  rose  the  mountains,  these  to  him  were  friends; 

Where  rolled  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home; 
Where  a  blue  sky  and  glowing  clime  extends, 

He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam ; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam, 

Were  unto  him  companionship;  they  spoke 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 

Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  Nature's  pages,  glassed  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake." 

Mr.  Ruskin  furnishes  his  readers  with  a  lens 
through  which  all  natural  objects  are  glorified; 
the  sky  assumes  new  beauty — the  clouds  are 
decked  with  wondrous  magnificence, — and  even 
each  individual  tree  excites  curiosity  and  intense 
admiration.  As  he  exults  over  them,  we  are 
ready  to  exclaim,  with  one  of  our  own  eloquent 
writers, — "  What  a  thought  that  was,  when  God 
thought  of  a  tree  !" 


XXV111  JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS. 

It  is  a  rare  and  delightful  privilege  to  know 
exactly  how  the  love  of  the  Beautiful  in  Nature 
has  been  developed  in  any  one  human  being; 
more  especially  in  a  many-sided  being,  such  as 
John  Ruskin.  He  has  himself  given  us  this 
privilege,  for  which  we  owe  him  many  thanks, 
in  the  following  charming  morsel  of  philosophi- 
cal autobiography: 

"I  cannot,  from  observation,  form  any  decided  opin 
ion  as  to  the  extent  in  which  this  strange  delight  in  na- 
ture influences  the  hearts  of  young  persons  in  general; 
and,  in  stating  what  has  passed  in  my  own  mind,  I  do 
not  mean  to  draw  any  positive  conclusion  as  to  the  nature 
of  the  feeling  in  other  children;  but  the  inquiry  is  clearly 
one  in  which  personal  experience  is  the  only  safe  ground 
to  go  upon,  though  a  narrow  one;  and  I  will  make  no 
excuse  for  talking  about  myself  with  reference  to  this 
subject,  because,  though  there  is  much  egotism  in  the 
world,  it  is  often  the  last  thing  a  man  thinks  of  doing, — 
and,  though  there  is  much  work  to  be  done  in  the  world, 
it  is  often  the  best  thing  a  man  can  do, — to  tell  the  exact 
truth  about  the  movements  of  his  own  mind;  and  there  is 
this  farther  reason,  that,  whatever  other  faculties  I  may 
or  may  not  possess,  this  gift  of  taking  pleasure  in  land- 
scape I  assuredly  possess  in  a  greater  degree  than  most 
men;  it  having  been  the  ruling  passion  of  my  life,  and 
the  reason  for  the  choice  of  its  field  of  labor. 

"  The  first  thing  which  I  remember  as  an  event  in  life, 
was  being  taken  by  my  nurse  to  the  brow  of  Friar's  Crag 
on  Derwent water;  the  intense  joy  mingled  with  awe,  that 
I  had  in  looking  through  the  hollows  In  the  mossy  roots, 
over  the  crag,  into  the  dark  lake,  has  associated  itself 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  AND  HIS    WORKS.  XXIX 

more  or  less  with  all  twining  roots  of  trees  ever  since. 
Two  other  things  I  remember,  as,  in  a  sort,  beginnings 
of  life; — crossing  Shapfells  (being  let  out  of  the  chaise  to 
run  up  the  hills),  'and  going  through  Glenfarg,  near  Kin- 
ross, in  a  winter's  morning,  when  the  rocks  were  hung 
with  icicles;  these  being  culminating  points  in  an  early- 
life  of  more  travelling  than  is  usually  indulged  to  a  child. 
In  such  journeyings,  whenever  they  brought  me  near 
hills,  and  in  all  mountain  ground  and  scenery,  I  had  a 
pleasure,  as  early  as  I  can  remember,  and  continuing  till 
I  was  eighteen  or  twenty,  infinitely  greater  than  any 
which  has  been  since  possible  to  me  in  anything;  com- 
parable for  intensity  only  to  the  joy  of  a  lover  in  being 
near  a  noble  and  kind  mistress,  but  no  more  explicable  or 
definable  than  that  feeling  of  love  itself.  Only  thus  much 
I  can  remember,  respecting  it,  which  is  important  to  our 
present  subject. 

"  First:  it  was  never  independent  of  associated  thought. 
Almost  as  soon  as  I  could  see  or  hear,  I  had  got  reading 
enough  to  give  me  associations  with  all  kinds  of  scenery; 
and  mountains,  in  particular,  were  always  partly  confused 
with  those  of  my  favorite  book,  Scott's  Monastery;  so 
that  Glenfarg  and  all  other  glens  were  more  or  less  en- 
chanted to  me,  filled  with  forms  of  hesitating  creed  atom 
Christie  of  the  Cluit  Hill,  and  the  monk  Eustace;  and 
with  a  general  presence  of  White  Lady  everywhere.  I 
also  generally  knew,  or  was  told  by  my  father  and  mother, 
such  simple  facts  of  history  as  were  necessary  to  give 
more  definite  and  justifiable  association  to  other  scenes 
which  chiefly  interested  me,  such  as  the  ruins  of  Loch- 
leven  and  Kenilworth;  and  thus  my  pleasure  in  moun- 
tains or  ruins  was  never,  even  in  earliest  childhood,  free 
from  a  certain  awe  and  melancholy,  and  general  sense  of 
the  meaning  of  death,  though  in  its  principal  influence 
entirely  exhilarating  and  gladdening. 


XXX  JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS. 

"  Secondly:  it  was  partly  dependent  on  contrast  with 
a  very  simple  and  unamused  mode  of  general  life;  I  was 
born  in  London,  and  accustomed,  for  two  or  three  years, 
to  no  other  prospect  than  that  of  the  brick  walls  over  the 
way;  had  no  brothers,  nor  sisters,  nor  companions  ;  and 
though  I  could  always  make  myself  happy  in  a  quiet  way, 
the  beauty  of  the  mountains  had  an  additional  charm  of 
change  and  adventure  which  a  country-bred  child  would 
not  have  felt. 

"Thirdly:  there  was  no  definite  religious  feeling  min- 
gled with  it.  I  partly  believed  in  ghosts  and  fairies;  but 
supposed  that  angels  belonged  entirely  to  the  Mosaic  dis- 
pensation, and  cannot  remember  any  single  thought  or 
feeling  connected  with  them.  I  believed  that  God  was  in 
heaven,  and  could  hear  me  and  see  me;  but  this  gave  me 
neither  pleasure  nor  pain,  and  I  seldom  thought  of  it  at 
all.  I  never  thought  of  nature  as  God's  work,  but  as  a 
separate  fact  or  existence. 

"Fourthly:  it  was  entirely  unaccompanied  by  powers 
of  reflection  or  invention.  Every  fancy  that  I  had  about 
nature  was  put  into  my  head  by  some  book;  and  I  never 
reflected  about  anything  till  I  grew  older;  and  then,  the 
more  I  reflected,  the  less  nature  was  precious  to  me:  I 
could  then  make  myself  happy,  by  thinking,  in  the  dark, 
or  in  the  dullest  scenery;  and  the  beautiful  scenery  be- 
came less  essential  to  my  pleasure. 

"Fifthly:  it  was,  according  to  its  strength,  inconsist- 
ent with  every  evil  feeling,  with  spite,  anger,  covetous- 
ness,  discontent,  and  every  other  hateful  passion;  but 
would  associate  itself  deeply  with  every  just  and  noble 
sorrow,  joy,  or  affection.  It  had  not,  however,  always 
the  power  to  repress  what  was  inconsistent  with  it;  and, 
though  only  after  stout  contention,  might  at  last  be 
crushed  by  what  it  had  partly  repressed.     And  as  it  only 


JOHN  RUSK  IN  AND   HIS    WORKS.  XXXI 

acted  by  setting  one  impulse  against  another,  though  it 
had  much  power  in  moulding  the  character,  it  had  hardly 
any  in  strengthening  it;  it  formed  temperament,  but  never 
instilled  principle  ;  it  kept  me  generally  good-humored 
and  kindly,  but  could  not  teach  me  perseverance  or  self- 
denial:  what  firmness  or  principle  I  had  was  quite  inde- 
pendent of  it;  and  it  came  itself  nearly  as  often  in  the 
form  of  a  temptation  as  of  a  safeguard,  leading  me  to 
ramble  over  hills  when  I  should  have  been  learning  les- 
sons, and  lose  days  in  reveries  which  I  might  have  spent 
in  doing  kindnesses. 

"Lastly:  although  there  was  no  definite  religious  sen- 
timent mingled  with  it,  there  was  a  continual  perception 
of  Sanctity  in  the  whole  of  nature,  from  the  slightest 
thing  to  the  vastest; — an  instinctive  awe,  mixed  with  de- 
light; an  indefinable  thrill,  such  as  we  sometimes  imagine 
to  indicate  the  presence  of  a  disembodied  spirit.  I  could 
only  feel  this  perfectly  when  I  was  alone;  and  then  it 
would  often  make  me  shiver  from  head  to  foot  with  the 
joy  and  fear  of  it,  when  after  being  some  time  away  from 
the  hills,  I  first  got  to  the  shore  of  a  mountain  river, 
where  the  brown  water  circled  among  the  pebbles,  or 
when  I  saw  the  first  swell  of  distant  land  against  the  sun- 
set, or  the  first  low  broken  wall,  covered  with  mountain 
moss.  I  cannot  in  the  least  describe  the  feeling:  but  I  do 
not  think  this  is  my  fault,  nor  that  of  the  English  lan- 
guage, for,  I  am  afraid,  no  feeling  is  describable.  If  we 
had  to  complain  even  the  sense  of  bodily  hunger  to  a 
person  who  had  never  felt  it,  we  should  be  hard  put  to  it 
for  words;  and  this  joy  in  nature  seemed  to  me  to  come 
of  a  sort  of  heart-hunger,  satisfied  with  the  presence  of  a 
Great  and  Holy  spirit.  These  feelings  remained  in  their 
full  intensity  till  I  was  eighteen  or  twenty,  and  then,  as 
the   reflective   and    practical    power   increased,  and   the 


•XXX.ll  JOHN  HUSHIN  AND  HIS    WORKS. 

'cares  of  this  world*  gained  upon  me,  faded  gradually 
away,  in  the  manner  described  by  Wordsworth  in  his 
Intimations  of  Immortality." 

Happily  for  the  world,  these  emotions  or 
"feelings,"  became  enthroned  in  the  Intellect 
of  Ruskin. 

"He  who  feels  Beauty,  but  cannot  intellectually  rec- 
ognize it,  is  ever  dependent  for  this  most  joyous  of  emo- 
tions upon  the  vernal  freshness  of  his  senses;  and  as 
these  grow  dull,  as  youth  flits  past,  the  emotion  of  the 
beautiful  gradually  becomes  a  thing  unknown.  It  is  only 
through  feeling  that  aesthetic  emotion  can  touch  such 
an  one;  and  how  soon,  alas!  does  this  medium  between 
man  and  nature,  between  the  soul  and  external  things 
grow  sluggish  and  torpid!  But  with  him  who  has  learned 
to  know  as  well  as  to  feci — whose  soul  is  one  clear  sky  of 
Intelligence, — the  case  is  far  otherwise.  Intellect  bright- 
ens as  the  senses  grow  dull;  and  though  the  sensuous 
imagination  pass  into  the  yellow  leaf  as  the  autumn  of 
life  draws  on,  still  will  the  Beautiful,  having  secured  for 
itself  a  retreat  in  the  intellect,  naturally  pass  into  immor- 
tality along  with  it.  An  old  man,  with  closed  eyes  and 
flowing  hair,  would  again,  as  in  the  days  of  ancient 
Greece,  form  the  ideal  of  a  poet;  and  the  taste  of  the  age 
of  Pericles,  enlightened  by  modern  philosophy,  and  puri- 
fied by  Christianity,  might  again  return" 

A  higher  aim  even  than  this  will,  we  trust,  be 
attempted  in  our  own  country.  True;  Art  is 
here  yet  in  its  infancy.  Its  healthful,  vigorous 
growth    and   development,  will    depend   mainly 


JOHN  RUSKIN  AND  HIS    WORKS.  XX XI 11 

upon  the  general  cultivation  of  a  correct  Taste. 
We  cannot  expect  our  Artists  to  pursue  high 
and  noble  aims  until  the  standard  of  Taste  is 
proportionably  elevated. 

For  the  study  of  nature, — the  inseparable  ally 
of  Art, — no  finer  field  can  be  found  on  the  wide 
earth,  than  our  own  wide  country; — and  no  bet- 
ter guide  and  interpreter,  than  John  Ruskin. 

L.  C.  T. 


flart  1. 
BE  A  U  TY. 


Scatter  diligently  in  susceptible  minds 
The  germs  of  the  good  and  the  beautiful: 
They  will  develope  there  to  trees,   bud,  bloom, 
And  bear  the  golden  fruits  of  Paradise. 


THE 


TRUE  AND  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

IN 

Nature,  Art,  Morals,  and  Religion. 


PART  I. 

BE  A  U  TY. 

Any  material  object  which  can  give  us  pleas- 
ure in  the  simple  contemplation  of  its  outward 
qualities,  without  any  direct  and  definite  exer- 
tion of  the  intellect,  I  call  in  some  way,  or  in 
some  degree,  beautiful.  Why  we  receive  pleas- 
ure from  some  forms  and  colors,  and  not  from 
others,  is  no  more  to  be  asked  or  answered  than 
why  we  like  sugar  and  dislike  wormwood.  The 
utmost  subtilty  of  investigation  will  only  lead 
us  to  ultimate  instincts  and  principles  of  human 
nature,  for  which  no  further  reason  can  be  given 
than  the  simple  will  of  the  Deity  that  we  should 


4  BEA  UTY. 

be  so  created.  We  may,  indeed,  perceive,  as 
far  as  we  are  acquainted  with  His  nature,  that 
we  have  been  so  constructed  as,  when  in  a 
healthy  and  cultivated  state  of  mind,  to  derive 
pleasure  from  whatever  things  are  illustrative 
of  that  nature;  but  we  do  not  receive  pleasure 
from  them  because  they  are  illustrative  of  it,  nor 
from  any  perception  that  they  are  illustrative 
of  it,  but  instinctively  and  necessarily,  as  we  de- 
rive sensual  pleasure  from  the  scent  of  a  rose. 
On  these  primary  principles  of  our  nature,  edu- 
cation and  accident  operate  to  an  unlimited 
extent;  they  may  be  cultivated  or  checked, 
directed  or  diverted,  gifted  by  right  guidance 
with  the  most  acute  and  faultless  sense,  or  sub- 
jected by  neglect  to  every  phase  of  error  and 
disease.  He  who  has  followed  up  these  natural 
laws  of  aversion  and  desire,  rendering  them 
more  and  more  authoritative  by  constant  obedi- 
ence, so  as  to  derive  pleasure  always  from  that 
which  God  originally  intended  should  give  him 
pleasure,  and  who  derives  the  greatest  possible 
sum  of  pleasure  from  any  given  object,  is  a  man 
of  taste. 

This,  then,  is  the  real  meaning  of  this  disputed 
word.  Perfect  taste  is  the  faculty  of  receiving 
the  greatest  possible  pleasure  from  those  ma- 
terial sources  which  are  attractive  to  our  moral 
nature  in  its  purity  and  perfection.     He  who 


BE  A  UTY.  5 

receives  little  pleasure  from  these  sources,  wants 
taste;  he  who  receives  pleasure  from  any  other 
sources,  has  false  or  bad  taste. 

And  it  is  thus,  that  the  term  "  taste  "  is  to  be 
distinguished  from  that  of  "judgment,"  with 
which  it  is  constantly  confounded.  Judgment 
is  a  general  term,  expressing  definite  action  of 
the  intellect,  and  applicable  to  every  kind  of 
subject  which  can  be  submitted  to  it.  There 
may  be  judgment  of  congruity,  judgment  of 
truth,  judgment  of  justice,  and  judgment  of 
difficulty  and  excellence.  But  all  these  exer- 
tions of  intellect  are  totally  distinct  from  taste, 
properly  so  called,  which  is  the  instinctive  and 
instant  preferring  of  one  material  object  to 
another  without  any  obvious  reason,  that  it  is 
proper  to  human  nature  in  its  perfection  so  to 
do. 

Observe,  however,  I  do  not  mean  by  exclud- 
ing direct  exertion  of  the  intellect  from  ideas  of 
beauty,  that  beauty  has  no  effect  upon  nor  con- 
nection with  the  intellect.  All  our  moral  feel- 
ings are  so  inwoven  with  our  intellectual  powers, 
that  we  cannot  affect  the  one  without,  in  some 
degree,  addressing  the  other;  and  in  all  high 
ideas  of  beauty  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
much  of  the  pleasure  depends  on  delicate  and 
untraceable  perceptions  of  fitness,  propriety,  and 
relation,    which    are    purely    intellectual,    and 


6  BEAUTY. 

through  which  we  arrive  at  our  noblest  ideas  of 
what  is  commonly  and  rightly  called  "  intellec- 
tual beauty."  But  there  is  yet  no  immediate 
exertion  of  the  intellect;  that  is  to  say,  if  a 
person,  receiving  even  the  noblest  ideas  of  sim- 
ple beauty,  be  asked  why  he  likes  the  object 
exciting  them,  he  will  not  be  able  to  give  any 
distinct  reason,  nor  to  trace  in  his  mind  any 
formal  thought  to  which  he  can  appeal  as  a 
source  of  pleasure.  He  will  say  that  the  thing 
gratifies,  fills,  hallows,  exalts  his  mind,  but  he 
will  not  be  able  to  say  why,  or  how.  If  he  can, 
and  if  he  can  show  that  he  perceives  in  the  ob- 
ject any  expression  of  distinct  thought,  he  has 
received  more  than  an  idea  of  beauty — it  is  an 
idea  of  relation. 

By  the  term  ideas  of  relation,  I  mean  to  ex- 
press all  those  sources  of  pleasure  which  involve 
and  require,  at  the  instant  of  their  perception, 
active  exertion  of  the  intellectual  powers. 

The  sensation  of  Beauty  is  not  sensual  on  the 
one  hand,  nor  is  it  intellectual  on  the  other, 
but  is  dependent  on  a  pure,  right,  and  open 
state  of  the  heart,  both  for  its  truth  and  its 
intensity,  insomuch  that  even  the  right  after- 
action of  the  intellect  upon  facts  of  beauty  so 
apprehended,  is  dependent  on  the  acuteness  of 
the  heart-feeling  about  them;  and  thus  the 
apostolic  words  come  true,  in  this  minor  respect 


BEA  UTY.  7 

as  in  all  others,  that  men  are  alienated  from  the 
life  of  God,  "  through  the  ignorance  that  is  in 
them,  having  the  understanding  darkened,  be- 
cause of  the  hardness  of  their  hearts,  and  so 
being  past  feeling,  give  themselves  up  to  lasciv- 
iousness;"  for  we  do  indeed  see  constantly  that 
men  having  naturally  acute  perceptions  of  the 
beautiful,  yet  not  receiving  it  with  a  pure  heart, 
nor  into  their  hearts  at  all,  never  comprehend 
it,  nor  receive  good  from  it,  but  make  it  a  mere 
minister  to  their  desires,  and  accompaniment 
and  seasoning  of  lower  sensual  pleasures,  until 
all  their  emotions  take  the  same  earthly  stamp, 
and  the  sense  of  beauty  sinks  into  the  servant 
of  lust. 

Nor  is  what  the  world  commonly  understands 
by  the  cultivation  of  taste,  anything  more  or  bet- 
ter than  this,  at  least  in  times  of  corrupt  and 
over-pampered  civilization,  when  men  build 
palaces,  and  plant  groves,  and  gather  luxuries, 
that  they  and  their  devices  may  hang  in  the 
corners  of  the  world  like  fine-spun  cobwebs, 
with  greedy,  puffed  up,  spider-like  lusts  in  the 
middle.  And  this,  which  in  Christian  times  is 
the  abuse  and  corruption  of  the  sense  of  beauty, 
was  in  that  Pagan  life  of  which  St.  Paul  speaks 
little  less  than  the  essence  of  it,  and  the  best 
they  had;  for  I  know  not  that  of  the  expressions 
of  affection  towards  external  Nature  to  be  found 


8  BE  A  UTY. 

among  Heathen  writers,  there  are  any  of  which 
the  balance  and  leading  thought  cleaves  not 
towards  the  sensual  parts  of  her.  Her  benefi- 
cence they  sought,  and  her  power  they  shunned; 
her  teaching  through  both  they  understood 
never.  The  pleasant  influences  of  soft  winds, 
and  singing  streamlets,  and  shady  coverts,  of 
the  violet  couch  and  plane-tree  shade,  they  re- 
ceived, perhaps,  in  a  more  noble  way  than  we, 
but  they  found  not  anything  except  fear,  upon 
the  bare  mountain  or  in  the  ghastly  glen.  The 
Hybla  heather  they  loved  more  for  its  sweet 
hives  than  its  purple  hues.  But  the  Christian 
theoria  seeks  not,  though  it  accepts,  and  touches 
with  its  own  purity,  what  the  Epicurean  sought, 
but  finds  its  food  and  the  objects  of  its  love 
everywhere,  in  what  is  harsh  and  fearful,  as  well 
as  what  is  kind,  nay  even  in  all  that  seems 
coarse  and  common-place;  seizing  that  which  is 
good,  and  delighting  more  sometimes  at  finding 
its  table  spread  in  strange  places,  and  in  the 
presence  of  its  enemies,  and  its  honey  coming 
out  of  the  rock,  than  if  all  were  harmonized 
into  a  less  wondrous  pleasure,  hating  only  what 
is  self-sighted  and  insolent  of  men's  work,  de- 
spising all  that  is  not  of  God;  yet  able  to  find 
evidence  of  Him  still,  where  all  seems  forgetful 
of  Him,  and  to  turn  that  into  a  witness  of  His 
working  which  was  meant  to  obscure  it.  and  so 


BEAUTY.  9 

with  clear  and  unoffending  sight  beholding  Hirn 
for  ever,  according  to  the  written  promise, — 
"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall 
see  God." 

Ideas  of  Beauty  are  among  the  noblest  which 
can  be  presented  to  the  human  mind,  invariably 
exalting  and  purifying  it  according  to  their  de- 
gree; and  it  would  appear  that  we  are  intended 
by  the  Deity  to  be  constantly  under  their  influ- 
ence, because  there  is  not  one  single  object  in 
nature  which  is  not  capable  of  conveying  them, 
and  which,  to  the  rightly  perceiving  mind,  does 
not  present  an  incalculably  greater  number  of 
beautiful,  than  of  deformed  parts;  there  being 
in  fact  scarcely  anything,  in  pure,  undiseased 
Nature,  like  positive  deformity,  but  only  degrees 
of  beauty,  or  such  slight  and  rare  points  of  per- 
mitted contrast  as  may  render  all  around  them 
more  valuable  by  their  opposition ;  spots  of 
blackness  in  creation,  to  make  its  colors  felt. 
But  although  everything  in  Nature  is  more  or 
less  beautiful,  every  species  of  object  has  its 
own  kind  and  degree  of  beauty;  some  being  in 
their  own  nature  more  beautiful  than  others, 
and  few,  if  any  individuals,  possessing  the  ut- 
most beauty  of  which  the  species  is  capable. 
This  utmost  degree  of  specific  beauty,  necessa- 
rily co-existent  with  the  utmost  perfection  of  the 
object  in  other  respects,  is  the  ideal  of  the  object 


10  BEAUTY. 

We  must  be  modest  and  cautious  in  the  pro- 
nouncing of  positive  opinions  on  the  subject  of 
beauty;  for  every  one  of  us  has  peculiar  sources 
of  enjoyment  necessarily  opened  to  him  in  cer- 
tain scenes  and  things,  sources  which  are  sealed 
to  others;  and  we  must  be  wary,  on  the  one 
hand,  of  confounding  these  in  ourselves  with 
ultimate  conclusions  of  taste,  and  so  forcing 
them  upon  all  as  authoritative  ;  and  on  the 
other,  of  supposing  that  the  enjoyments,  which 
we  cannot  share,  are  shallow  or  unwarrantable, 
because  incommunicable.  By  the  term  Beauty, 
two  things  are  signified;  First,  that  external 
quality  of  bodies  which  may  be  shown  to  be  in 
some  sort  typical  of  the  Divine  attributes,  and 
which,  therefore,  I  shall  for  distinction's  sake 
call  typical  beauty;  and  second,  the  appearance 
of  felicitous  fulfilment  of  functions  in  many 
things,  and  this  I  shall  call  vital  beauty. 

Let  us  briefly  distinguish  those  qualities,  or 
types,  on  whose  combination  is  dependent  the 
power  of  mere  material  loveliness.  I  pretend 
neither  to  enumerate  nor  to  perceive  them  all; 
yet  certain  powerful  and  palpable  modes  there 
are,  by  observing  which,  we  may  come  at  such 
general  conclusions  on  the  subject  as  may  be 
practically  useful. 

i.  Infinity,  or  the  type  of  Divine  Incompre- 
hensibility. 


INFINITY.  II 

2.  Unity,  or  the  type  of  the  Divine  Compre- 
hensiveness. 

3.  Repose,  or  the  type  of  the  Divine  Perma- 
ience. 

4.  Symmetry,  or  the  type  of  the  Divine  Jus- 
tice. 

5.  Purity,  or  the  type  of  Divine  Energy. 

6.  Moderation,  or  the  type  of  Government  by 
Law. 


1. — INFINITY. 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy, — 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy. 

But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 

The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended. 

At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 

And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

One,  however,  of  these  child  instincts,  I  be- 
lieve that  few  forget,  the  emotion,  namely, 
caused  by  all  open  ground,  or  lines  of  any  spa- 
cious kind  against  the  sky,  behind  which  there 
might  be  conceived  the  sea. 


1  2  BE  A  UTY. 

Whatever  beauty  there  may  result  from  effects 
of  light  on  foreground  objects,  from  the  dew  of 
the  grass,  the  flash  of  the  cascade,  the  glitter  of 
the  birch  trunk,  or  the  fair  daylight  hues  of 
darker  things  (and  joyfulness  there  is  in  all  of 
them),  there  is  yet  a  light  which  the  eye  invari- 
ably seeks  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  the  beautiful, 
the  light  of  the  declining  or  breaking  day,  and 
the  flakes  of  scarlet  cloud  burning  like  watch- 
fires  in  the  green  sky  of  the  horizon;  a  deeper 
feeling,  I  say,  not  perhaps  more  acute,  but  hav- 
ing more  of  spiritual  hope  and  longing,  less  of 
animal  and  present  life,  more  manifest,  invari- 
ably, in  those  of  more  serious  and  determined 
mind  (I  use  the  word  serious,  not  as  being 
opposed  to  cheerful,  but  to  trivial  and  vola- 
tile); but,  I  think,  marked  and  unfailing  even 
in  those  of  the  least  thoughtful  dispositions.  I 
am  willing  to  let  it  rest  on  the  determination  of 
every  reader,  whether  the  pleasure  which  he 
has  received  from  these  effects  of  calm  and 
luminous  distance  be  not  the  most  singular  and 
memorable  of  which  he  has  been  conscious; 
whether  all  that  is  dazzling  in  color,  perfect  in 
form,  gladdening  in  expression,  be  not  of  evanes- 
cent and  shallow  appealing,  when  compared 
with  the  still  small  voice  of  the  level  twilight 
behind  purple  hills,  or  the  scarlet  arch  of  dawn 
over  the  dark,  troublous-edged  sea. 


INFINITY.  13 

Let  us  try  to  discover  that  which  effects  of 
this  kind  possess  or  suggest,  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, and  which  other  effects  of  light  and  color 
possess  not.  There  must  be  something  in  them 
of  a  peculiar  character,  and  that,  whatever  it  be, 
must  be  one  of  the  primal  and  most  earnest  mo- 
tives of  beauty  to  human  sensation. 

Do  they  show  finer  characters  of  form  than 
can  be  developed  by  the  broader  daylight?  Not 
so;  for  their  power  is  almost  independent  of  the 
forms  they  assume  or  display;  it  matters  little 
whether  the  bright  clouds  be  simple  or  manifold, 
whether  the  mountain  line  be  subdued  or  ma- 
jestic; the  fairer  forms  of  earthly  things  are  by 
them  subdued  and  disguised,  the  round  and 
muscular  growth  of  the  forest  trunks  is  sunk 
into  skeleton  lines  of  quiet  shade,  the  purple 
clefts  of  the  hill-side  are  labyrinthed  in  the 
darkness,  the  orbed  spring  and  whirling  wave  of 
the  torrent  have  given  place  to  a  white,  ghastly, 
interrupted  gleaming.  Have  they  more  perfec- 
tion or  fulness  of  color?  Not  so;  for  their  ef- 
fect is  oftentimes  deeper  when  their  hues  are 
dim,  than  when  they  are  blazoned  with  crimson 
and  pale  gold;  and  assuredly  in  the  blue  of  the 
rainy  sky,  in  the  many  tints  of  morning  flowers, 
in  the  sunlight  on  summer  foliage  and  field, 
there  are  more  sources  of  mere  sensual  color- 
pleasure  than  in  the  single  streak  of  wan  and  dy- 


14  BEAUTY. 

ing  light.  It  is  not  then  by  nobler  form,  it  is 
not  by  positiveness  of  hue,  it  is  not  by  intensity 
of  light  (for  the  sun  itself  at  noonday  is  effectless 
upon  the  feelings),  that  this  strange  distant 
space  possesses  its  attractive  power.  But  there 
is  one  thing  that  it  has,  or  suggests,  which  no 
other  object  of  sight  suggests  in  equal  degree, 
and  that  is, — Infinity.  It  is  of  all  visible  things 
the  least  material,  the  least  finite,  the  farthest 
withdrawn  from  the  earth  prison-house,  the 
most  typical  of  the  nature  of  God,  the  most  sug- 
gestive of  the  glory  of  his  dwelling-place.  For 
the  sky  of  night,  though  we  may  know  it  bound- 
less, is  dark,  it  is  a  studded  vault,  a  roof  that 
seems  to  shut  us  in  and  down;  but  the  bright 
distance  has  no  limit — we  feel  its  infinity,  as  we 
rejoice  in  its  purity  of  light. 

Let  the  reader  bear  constantly  in  mind,  that 
I  insist  not  on  his  accepting  any  interpretation 
of  mine,  but  only  on  his  dwelling  so  long  on 
those  objects,  which  he  perceives  to  be  beauti- 
ful, as  to  determine  whether  the  qualities  to 
which  I  trace  their  beauty  be  necessarily  there 
or  no.  Farther  expressions  of  infinity  there  are 
in  the  mystery  of  Nature,  and  in  some  measure 
in  her  vastness,  but  these  are  dependent  on  our 
own  imperfections,  and  therefore,  though  they 
produce  sublimity  they  are  unconnected  with 
beauty.     For  that  which  we  foolishly  call  vast- 


UNITY.  15 

ness  is,  rightly  considered,  not  more  wonderful, 
not  more  impressive,  than  that  which  we  inso- 
lently call  littleness;  and  the  infinity  of  God  is 
not  mysterious^  it  is  only  unfathomable;  not 
concealed,  but  incomprehensible;  it  is  a  clear 
infinity,  the  darkness  of  the  pure,  unsearchable 
sea. 


II. UNITY. 


"All  things,"  says  Hooker,  "(God  only  ex- 
cepted) besides  the  nature  which  they  have  in 
themselves,  receive  externally  some  perfection 
from  other  things."  The  Divine  essence  I  think 
it  better  to  speak  of  as  comprehensiveness,  than 
as  unity,  because  unity  is  often  understood  in 
the  sense  of  oneness  or  singleness,  instead  of 
universality,  whereas  the  only  Unity  which  by 
any  means  can  become  grateful  or  an  object  of 
hope  to  men,  and  whose  types  therefore  in  ma- 
terial things  can  be  beautiful,  is  that  on  which 
turned  the  last  words  and  prayer  of  Christ  be- 
fore his  crossing  of  the  Kidron  brook.  "  Neither 
pray  I  for  these  alone,  but  for  them  also  which 
shall  believe  on  me  through  their  word.  That 
they  all  may  be  one,  as  thou,  Father,  art  in  me, 
and  I  in  thee." 


l6  BEA  UTY. 

And  so  there  is  not  any  matter,  nor  any  spirit, 
nor  any  creature,  but  it  is  capable  of  a  unity  of 
some  kind  with  other  creatures,  and  in  that  unity 
is  its  perfection  and  theirs,  and  a  pleasure  also 
for  the  beholding  of  all  other  creatures  that  can 
behold.  So  the  unity  of  spirits  is  partly  in  their 
sympathy  and  partly  in  their  giving  and  taking, 
and  always  in  their  love,  and  these  are  their  de- 
light and  their  strength,  for  their  strength  is  in 
their  co-working  and  army  fellowship,  and  their 
delight  is  in  the  giving  and  receiving  of  alter- 
nate and  perpetual  currents  of  good,  their  in- 
separable dependency  on  each  other's  being,  and 
their  essential  and  perfect  depending  on  their 
Creator's:  and  so  the  unity  of  earthly  creatures 
is  their  power  and  their  peace,  not  like  the  dead 
and  cold  peace  of  undisturbed  stones  and  soli- 
tary mountains,  but  the  living  peace  of  trust,  and 
the  living  power  of  support,  of  hands  that  hold 
each  other  and  are  still:  and  so  the  unity  of 
matter  is,  in  its  noblest  form,  the  organization 
of  it  which  builds  it  up  into  temples  for  the 
spirit,  and  in  its  lower  form,  the  sweet  and 
strange  affinity,  which  gives  to  it  the  glory  of  its 
orderly  elements,  and  the  fair  variety  of  change 
and  assimilation  that  turns  the  dust  into  the 
crystal,  and  separates  the  waters  that  be  above 
the  firmament  from  the  waters  that  be  beneath; 
and  in  its  lowest  form,  it  is  the  working  and 


UNITY.  If 

walking  and  clinging  together  that  gives  their 
power  to  the  winds,  and  its  syllables  and  sound- 
ings to  the  air,  and  their  weight  to  the  waves, 
and  their  burning  to  the  sunbeams,  and  their 
stability  to  the  mountains,  and  to  every  creature 
whatsoever  operation  is  for  its  glory  and  for 
others'  good.  Among  all  things  which  are  to 
have  unity  of  membership  one  with  another, 
there  must  be  difference  or  variety;  and  though 
it  is  possible  that  many  like  things  may  be  made 
members  of  one  body,  yet  it  is  remarkable  that 
this  structure  appears  characteristic  of  the  lower 
creatures,  rather  than  the  higher,  as  the  many 
legs  of  the  caterpillar,  and  the  many  arms  and 
suckers  of  the  radiata,  and  that,  as  we  rise  in 
order  of  being,  the  number  of  similar  members 
becomes  less,  and  their  structure  commonly  seems 
based  on  the  principle  of  the  unity  of  two  things 
by  a  third,  as  Plato  has  it  in  the  Timseus,  §  II. 

Hence,  out  of  the  necessity  of  unity,  arises 
that  of  variety,  a  necessity  often  more  vividly, 
though  never  so  deeply  felt,  because  lying  at  the 
surfaces  of  things,  and  assisted  by  an  influential 
principle  of  our  nature,  the  love  of  change,  and 
the  power  of  contrast.  Receiving  variety,  only 
as  that  which  accomplishes  Unity,  or  makes  it 
perceived,  its  operation  is  found  to  be  very 
precious. 

The  effect  of  variety  is  best  exemplified  by  the 


1 8  BEAUTY. 

melodies  of  music,  wherein,  by  the  differences 
of  the  notes,  they  are  connected  with  each 
other  in  certain  pleasant  relations.  This  con- 
nection taking  place  in  quantities  is  Proportion. 

This  influence  of  apparent  proportion — a  pro- 
portion, be  itj  observed,  which  has  no  reference 
to  ultimate  ends,  but  which  is  itself,  seemingly, 
the  end  and  object  of  operation  in  many  of  the 
forces  of  nature — is  therefore  at  the  root  of  all 
our  delight  in  any  beautiful  form  whatsoever. 

It  is  utterly  vain  to  endeavor  to  reduce  this 
proportion  to  finite  rules,  for  it  is  as  various  as 
musical  melody,  and  the  laws  to  which  it  is  sub- 
ject are  of  the  same  general  kind,  so  that  the 
determination  of  right  or  wrong  proportion  is  as 
much  a  matter  of  feeling  and  experience  as  the 
appreciation  of  good  musical  composition;  not 
but  that  there  is  a  science  of  both,  and  princi- 
ples which  may  not  be  infringed,  but  that  with- 
in these  limits  the  liberty  of  invention  is  infinite, 
and  the  degrees  of  excellence,  infinite  also. 


III. — REPOSE. 


There  is  probably  no  necessity  more  impera- 
tively felt  by  the  artist,  no  test  more  unfailing 


REPOSE.  19 

of  the  greatness  of  artistical  treatment,  than  that 
of  the  appearance  of  repose,  and  yet  there  is  no 
quality  whose  semblance  in  mere  matter  is  more 
difficult  to  define  or  illustrate.  Nevertheless,  I 
believe  that  our  instinctive  love  of  it,  as  well  as 
the  cause  to  which  I  attribute  that  love,  (al- 
though here  also,  as  in  the  former  cases,  I  con- 
tend not  for  the  interpretation,  but  for  the  fact,) 
will  be  readily  allowed  by  the  reader.  As  op- 
posed to  passion,  changefulness,  or  laborious  ex- 
ertion, repose  is  the  especial  and  separating 
characteristic  of  the  eternal  mind  and  power;  it 
is  the  "I  am"  of  the  Creator  opposed  to  the  "I 
become"  of  all  creatures;  it  is  the  sign  alike  of 
the  supreme  knowledge  which  is  incapable  of 
surprise,  the  supreme  power  which  is  incapable 
of  labor,  the  supreme  volition  which  is  incapable 
of  change;  it  is  the  stillness  of  the  beams  of  the 
eternal  chambers  laid  upon  the  variable  waters 
of  ministering  creatures;  and  as  we  saw  before 
that  the  infinity  which  was  a  type  of  the  Divine 
nature  on  the  one  hand,  became  yet  more  desir- 
able on  the  other  from  its  peculiar  address  to 
our  prison  hopes,  and  to  the  expectations  of  an 
unsatisfied  and  unaccomplished  existence,  so  the 
types  of  this  third  attribute  of  the  Deity  might 
seem  to  have  been  rendered  farther  attractive 
to  mortal  instinct,  through  the  infliction  upon 
the  fallen  creature  of  a  curse  necessitating  a  la- 


20  BEAUTY. 

bor  once  unnatural  and  still  most  painful,  so  that 
the  desire  of  rest  planted  in  the  heart  is  no  sen- 
sual nor  unworthy  one,  but  a  longing  for  reno- 
vation and  for  escape  from  a  state  whose  ever)' 
phase  is  mere  preparation  for  another  equally 
transitory,  to  one  in  which  permanence  shall 
have  become  possible  through  perfection.  Hence 
the  great  call  of  Christ  to  men,  that  call  on 
which  St.  Augustine  fixed  essential  expression  of 
Christian  hope,  is  accompanied  by  the  promise 
of  rest;  and  the  death-bequest  of  Christ  to  men 
is  "peace." 

Hence,  I  think  there  is  no  desire  more  intense 
or  more  exalted  than  that  which  exists  in  all 
rightly  disciplined  minds,  for  the  evidences  of 
repose  in  external  signs.  I  say  fearlessly  respect- 
ing repose,  that  no  work  of  art  can  be  great 
without  it,  and  that  all  art  is  great  in  propor- 
tion to  the  appearance  of  it.  It  is  the  most  un- 
failing test  of  beauty,  whether  of  matter  or  of 
motion;  nothing  can  be  ignoble  that  possesses 
it,  nothing  right  that  has  it  not;  and  in  strict 
proportion  to  its  appearance  in  the  work,  is  the 
majesty  of  mind  to  be  inferred  in  the  artificer. 
Without  regard  to  other  qualities,  we  may  look 
to  this  for  our  evidence,  and  by  the  search  of 
this  alone  we  may  be  led  to  the  rejection  of  all 
that  is  base,  and   the  accepting  of  all  that  is 


REPOSE.  21 

good  and  great,  for  the  paths  of  wisdom  are  all 
peace. 

We  shall  see  by  this  light  three  colossal  images 
standing  up  side  by  side,  looming  in  their  great 
rest  of  spirituality  above  the  whole  world-hori- 
zon ;  Phidias,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Dante  ;  and 
then,  separated  from  their  great  religious  thrones 
only  by  less  fulness  and  earnestness  of  faith, 
Homer  and  Shakspeare  ;  and  from  these  we  may 
go  down  step  by  step  among  the  mighty  men  of 
every  age,  securely  and  certainly  observant  of 
diminished  lustre  in  every  appearance  of  rest- 
lessness and  effort,  until  the  last  trace  of  true 
inspiration  vanishes  in  the  tottering  affecta- 
tions, or  the  tortured  inanities  of  modern  times. 
There  is  no  art,  no  pursuit,  whatsoever,  but  its 
results  may  be  classed  by  this  test  alone  ;  every- 
thing of  evil  is  betrayed  and  winnowed  away  by 
it,  glitter  and  confusion  and  glare  of  color, 
inconsistency  or  absence  of  thought,  forced 
expression,  evil  choice  of  subject,  over  accumu- 
lation of  materials,  whether  in  painting  or  litera- 
ture ;  the  shallowness  of  the  English  schools  of 
art,  the  strained  and  disgusting  horrors  of  the 
French,  the  distorted  feverishness  of  the  German: 
— pretence,  over-decoration,  over-division  of 
parts  in  architecture,  and  again  in  music,  in 
acting,  in  dancing,  in  whatsoever  art,  great  or 
mean,  there  are  yet  degrees  of  greatness  or  mean- 


22  BEAUTY. 

ness  entirely  dependent  on  this  single  quality  oi 
repose. 

But  that  which  in  lifeless  things  ennobles  them 
by  seeming  to  indicate  life,  ennobles  higher 
creatures  by  indicating  the  exaltation  of  their 
earthly  vitality  into  a  Divine  vitality ;  and  rais- 
ing the  life  of  sense  into  the  life  of  faith — faith, 
whether  we  receive  it  in  the  sense  of  adherence 
to  resolution,  obedience  to  law,  regardfulness  of 
promise,  in  which  from  all  time  it  has  been  the 
test  as  the  shield  of  the  true  being  and  life  of 
man,  or  in  the  still  higher  sense  of  trustfulness 
in  the  presence,  kindness,  and  word  of  God ;  in 
which  form  it  has  been  exhibited  under  the 
Christian  dispensation.  For  whether  in  one  or 
other  form,  whether  the  faithfulness  of  men 
whose  path  is  chosen  and  portion  fixed,  in  the 
following  and  receiving  of  that  path  and  portion, 
as  in  the  Thermopylae  camp;  or  the  happier 
faithfulness  of  children  in  the  good  giving  of 
their  Father,  and  of  subjects  in  the  conduct  of 
their  king,  as  in  the  "Stand  still  and  see  the 
salvation  of  God  "  of  the  Red  Sea  shore,  there  is 
rest  and  peacefulness,  the  "  standing  still  "  in 
both,  the  quietness  of  action  determined,  of 
spirit  unalarmed,  of  expectation  unimpatient  : 
beautiful,  even  when  based  only  as  of  old,  on 
the  self-command  and  self-possession,  the  per- 
sistent dignity  or  the  uncalculating  love  of  the 


SYMMETRY.  23 

creature,*  but  more  beautiful  yet  when  the  rest 
is  one  of  humility  instead  of  pride,  and  the  trust 
no  more  in  the  .resolution  we  have  taken  but  in 
the  hand  we  hold. 


IV. SYMMETRY. 

In  all  perfectly  beautiful  objects,  there  is 
found  the  opposition  of  one  part  to  another  and 
a  reciprocal  balance  obtained  ;  in  animals  the 
balance  being  commonly  between  opposite  sides 
(note  the  disagreeableness  occasioned  by  the 
exception  in  fiat  fish,  having  the  eyes  on  one  side 
of  the  head),  but  in  vegetables  the  opposition  is 
less  distinct,  as  in  the  boughs  on  opposite  sides 
of  trees,  and  the  leaves  and  sprays  on  each  side 
of  the  boughs,  and  in  dead  matter  less  perfect 
still,  often  amounting  only  to  a  certain  tendency 
towards  a  balance,  as  in  the  opposite  sides  of 

*  "  The  universal  instinct  of  repose, 

The  looping  for  confirmed  tranquillity 
Inward  and  outward,  humble,  yet  sublime; 
The  life  where  hope  and  memory  are  as  one; 
Earth  quiet  and  unchanged ;  the  human  soul 
Consistent  in  self  rule ;  and  heaven  revealed 
To  meditation,  in  that  quietness." 

Wordsworth.     Excursion,  Book  hi 


24  BEAUTY. 

valleys  and  alternate  windings  of  streams.  In 
things  in  which  perfect  symmetry  is  from  their 
nature  impossible  or  improper,  a  balance  must 
be  at  least  in  some  measure  expressed  before 
they  can  be  beheld  with  pleasure.  Hence  the 
necessity  of  what  artists  reauire  as  opposing 
lines  or  masses  in  composition,  the  propriety  of 
which,  as  well  as  their  value,  depends  chiefly  on 
their  inartificial  and  natural  invention.  Abso- 
lute equality  is  not  required,  still  less  absolute 
similarity.  A  mass  of  subdued  color  may  be 
balanced  by  a  point  of  a  powerful  one,  and  a 
long  and  latent  line  overpowered  by  a  short  and 
conspicuous  one.  The  only  error  against  which 
it  is  necessary  to  guard  the  reader  with  respect 
to  symmetry,  is  the  confounding  it  with  propor- 
tion, though  it  seems  strange  that  the  two  terms 
could  ever  have  been  used  as  synonymous. 
Symmetry  is  the  opposition  of  equal  quantities  to 
each  other.  Proportion  the  connection  of  unequal 
quantities  with  each  other.  The  property  of  a 
tree  in  sending  out  equal  boughs  on  opposite 
sides  is  symmetrical.  Its  sending  out  shorter 
and  smaller  towards  the  top,  proportional.  In 
the  human  face  its  balance  of  opposite  sides  is 
symmetry,  its  division  upwards,  proportion. 

Whether  the  agreeableness  of  symmetry  be  in 
any  way  referable  to  its  expression  of  the  Aris- 
totelian icrortjs,  that  is  to  say  of  abstract  justice, 


PURITY.  25 

I  leave  the  reader  to  determine ;  I  only  assert 
respecting  it,  that  it  is  necessary  to  the  dignity 
of  every  form,  and  that  by  the  removal  of  it  we 
shall  render  the  other  elements  of  beauty  com- 
paratively ineffectual:  though,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  to  be  observed  that  it  is  rather  a  mode  of 
arrangement  of  qualities  than  a  quality  itself ; 
and  hence  symmetry  has  little  power  over  the 
mind,  unless  all  the  other  constituents  of  beauty 
be  found  together  with  it. 


v. — PURITY. 


There  is  one  quality  which  might  have  escaped 
us  in  the  consideration  of  mere  matter,  namely 
purity,  and  yet  I  think  that  the  original  notion 
of  this  quality  is  altogether  material,  and  has 
only  been  attributed  to  color  when  such  color  is 
suggestive  of  the  condition  of  matter  from  which 
we  originally  received  the  idea.  For  I  see  not  in 
the  abstract  how  one  color  should  be  considered 
purer  than  another,  except  as  more  or  less  com- 
pounded, whereas  there  is  certainly  a  sense  of 
purity  or  impurity  in  the  most  compound  and 
neutral  colors,  as  well  as  in  the  simplest,  a 
quality  difficult  to  define,  and  which  the  reader 
will  probably  be  surprised  by  my  calling  the  type 


26  BEAUTY. 

of  energy,  with  which  it  has  certainly  little 
traceable  connection  in  the  mind. 

The  only  idea  which  I  think  can  be  legiti- 
mately connected  with  purity  of  matter,  is  this 
of  vital  and  energetic  connection  among  its  par- 
ticles, and  the  idea  of  foulness  is  essentially 
connected  with  dissolution  and  death.  Thus 
the  purity  of  the  rock,  contrasted  with  the  foul- 
ness of  dust  or  mould,  is  expressed  by  the  epithet 
"living,"  very  singularly  given  in  the  rock,  in 
almost  all  languages;  singularly  I  say,  because 
life  is  almost  the  last  attribute  one  would  ascribe 
to  stone,  but  for  this  visible  energy  and  connec- 
tion of  its  particles  ;  and  so  of  water  as  opposed 
to  stagnancy.  And  I  do  not  think  that,  however 
pure  a  powder  or  dust  may  be,  the  idea  of  beauty 
is  ever  connected  with  it,  for  it  is  not  the  mere 
purity,  but  the  active  condition  of  the  substance 
which  is  desired,  so  that  as  soon  as  it  shoots  into 
crystals,  or  gathers  into  effervescence,  a  sensa- 
tion of  active  or  real  purity  is  received  which 
was  not  felt  in  the  calcined  caput  mortuum. 

The  most  lovely  objects  in  nature  are  only 
partially  transparent.  I  suppose  the  utmost 
possible  sense  of  beauty  (of  color)  is  conveyed 
by  a  feebly  translucent,  smooth,  but  not  lustrous 
surface  of  white,  and  pale  warm  red,  subdued  by 
the  most  pure  and  delicate  greys,  as  in  the  finer 
portions    of   the   human   frame ;   in  wreaths  of 


MODERA  TION.  2J 

snow,  and  in  white  plumage  under  rose  light.  A 
fair  forehead  outshines  its  diamond  diadem. 
The  sparkle  of  the  cascade  withdraws  not  our 
eyes  from  the  -snowy  summits  in  their  evening 
silence. 

With  the  idea  of  purity  comes  that  of  spiritu- 
ality, for  the  essential  characteristic  of  matter  is 
its  inertia,  whence,  by  adding  to  it  purity  or 
energy,  we  may  in  some  measure  spiritualize  even 
matter  itself.  Thus  in  the  descriptions  of  the 
Apocalypse  it  is  its  purity  that  fits  it  for  its  place 
in  heaven;  the  river  of  the  water  of  life  that 
proceeds  out  of  the  throne  of  the  Lamb  is  clear 
as  crystal,  and  the  pavement  of  the  city  is  pure 
gold,  like  unto  clear  glass. 


VI. — MODERATION. 

Of  objects  which,  in  respect  of  the  qualities 
hitherto  considered,  appear  to  have  equal  claims 
to  regard,  we  find,  nevertheless,  that  certain  are 
preferred  to  others  in  consequence  of  an  attrac- 
tive power,  usually  expressed  by  the  terms 
"chasteness,  refinement,  or  elegance,"  and  it 
appears  also  that  things  which  in  other  respects 
have  little  in  them  of  natural  beauty,  and  are  of 
forms  altogether  simple  and  adapted  to  simple 


2$  BEAUTY. 

uses,  are  capable  of  much  distinction  and  desira- 
bleness in  consequence  of  these  qualities  only. 
It  is  of  importance  to  discover  the  real  nature  of 
the  ideas  thus  expressed. 

Something  of  the  peculiar  meaning  of  the 
words  is  referable  to  the  authority  of  fashion  and 
the  exclusiveness  of  pride,  owing  to  which  that 
which  is  the  mode  of  a  particular  time  is  submis- 
sively esteemed,  and  that  which  by  its  costliness 
or  its  rarity  is  of  difficult  attainment,  or  in  any 
way  appears  to  have  been  chosen  as  the  best  of 
many  things  (which  is  the  original  sense  of  the 
words  elegant  and  exquisite),  is  esteemed  for  the 
witness  it  bears  to  the  dignity  of  the  chooser. 

But  neither  of  these  ideas  are  in  any  way  con- 
nected with  eternal  beauty,  neither  do  they  at 
all  account  for  that  agreeableness  of  color  and 
form  which  is  especially  termed  chasteness,  and 
which  it  would  seem  to  be  a  characteristic 
of  rightly  trained  mind  in  all  things  to  prefer, 
and  of  common  minds  to  reject. 

There  is,  however,  another  character  of  artifi- 
cial productions,  to  which  these  terms  have 
partial  reference,  which  it  is  of  some  importance 
to  note,  that  of  finish,  exactness,  or  refinement, 
which  are  commonly  desired  in  the  works  of 
men,  owing  both  to  their  difficulty  of  accomplish-, 
ment  and  consequent  expression  of  care  and 
power.     And  there  is  not  a  greater  sign  of  the 


MODERA  TION  2g 

imperfection  of  general  taste,  than  its  capability 
of  contentment  with  forms  and  things  which, 
professing  completion,  are  yet  not  exact  nor  com- 
plete, as  in  the*  vulgar  with  wax  and  clay,  and 
china  figures,  and  in  bad  sculptors  with  an  unfin- 
ished and  clay-like  modelling  of  surface,  and 
curves  and  angles  of  no  precision  or  delicacy. 
Yet  this  finish  is  not  a  part  or  constituent 
of  beauty,  but  the  full  and  ultimate  rendering  of 
it.  And  therefore,  as  there  certainly  is  admitted 
a  difference  of  degree  in  what  we  call  chasteness, 
even  in  Divine  work  (compare  the  hollyhock  or 
the  sunflower  with  the  vale  lily),  we  must  seek 
for  it  some  other  explanation  and  source  than 
this. 

And  if,  bringing  down  our  ideas  of  it  from 
complicated  objects  to  simple  lines  and  colors, 
we  analyze  and  regard  them  carefully,  I  think 
we  shall  be  able  to  trace  them  to  an  under-cur- 
rent of  constantly  agreeable  feeling,  excited  by 
the  appearance  in  material  things  of  a  self-re- 
strained liberty,  that  is  to  say,  by  the  image  of 
that  acting  of  God  with  regard  to  all  his  creation, 
wherein,  though  free  to  operate  in  whatever 
arbitrary,  sudden,  violent,  or  inconstant  ways  he 
will,  he  yet,  if  we  may  reverently  so  speak,  re- 
strains in  himself  this  his  omnipotent  liberty, 
and  works  always  in  consistent  modes,  called  by 
us  laws.     And  this  restraint  or  moderation,  ac- 


30  BE  A  UTY. 

cording  to  the  words  of  Hooker  ("  that  which 
doth  moderate  the  force  and  power,  that  which 
doth  appoint  the  form  and  measure  of  working, 
the  same  we  term  a  law"),  is  in  the  Deity  not 
restraint,  such  as  it  is  said  of  creatures,  but,  as 
again  says  Hooker,  "  the  very  being  of  God  is 
a  law  to  his  working,"  so  that  every  appearance  of 
painfulness  or  want  of  power  and  freedom  in  ma- 
terial things  is  wrong  and  ugly;  for  the  right  re- 
straint, the  image  of  Divine  operation,  is  both  in 
them,  and  in  men,  a  willing  and  not  painful  stop- 
ping short  of  the  utmost  degree  to  which  their 
power  might  reach,  and  the  appearance  of  fetter- 
ing or  confinement  is  the  cause  of  ugliness  in 
the  one,  as  the  slightest  painfulness  or  effort  in 
restraint  is  a  sign  of  sin  in  the  other. 

I  have  put  this  attribute  of  beauty  last,  be- 
cause I  consider  it  the  girdle  and  safeguard  of 
all  the  rest,  and  in  this  respect  the  most  essen- 
tial of  all,  for  it  is  possible  that  a  certain  degree 
of  beauty  may  be  attained  even  in  the  absence 
of  one  of  its  other  constituents,  as  sometimes  in 
some  measure  without  symmetry  or  without 
unity.  But  the  least  appearance  of  violence  or 
extravagance,  of  the  want  of  moderation  and 
restraint,  is,  I  think,  destructive  of  all  beauty 
whatsoever  in  everything,  color,  form,  motion, 
language,  or  thought,  giving  rise  to  that  which 
in  color  we  call  glaring,  in  form  inelegant,  in 


MODE R A  TION.  3 1 

motion  ungraceful,  in  language  coarse,  in  thought 
undisciplined,  in  all  unchastened;  which  quali- 
ties are  in  everything  most  painful,  because  the 
signs  of  disobedient  and  irregular  operation. 

In  color  it  is  not  red,  but  rose-color,  which  is 
most  beautiful,  neither  such  actual  green  as  we 
find  in  summer  foliage,  partly,  and  in  our  paint- 
ing of  it  constantly;  but  such  grey  green  as  that 
into  which  nature  modifies  her  distant  tints,  or 
such  pale  green  and  uncertain  as  we  see  in  sun- 
set sky,  and  in  the  clefts  of  the  glacier,  and  the 
chrysoprase,  and  the  sea-foam.  And  so  of  all 
colors;  not  that  they  may  not  sometimes  be  deep 
and  full,  but  that  there  is  a  solemn  moderation 
even  in  their  very  fulness,  and  a  holy  reference 
beyond  and  out  of  their  own  nature  to  great 
harmonies  by  which  they  are  governed,  and  in 
obedience  to  which  is  their  glory.  The  very  bril- 
liancy and  real  power  of  all  color  is  dependent 
on  the  chastening  of  it,  as  of  a  voice  on  its 
gentleness,  and  as  of  action  on  its  calmness,  and 
as  all  moral  vigor  on  self-command.  And  there- 
fore as  that  virtue  which  men  last,  and  with 
most  difficulty  attain  unto,  and  which  many  at- 
tain not  at  all,  and  yet  that  which  is  essential  to 
the  conduct  and  almost  to  the  being  of  all  other 
virtues,  since  neither  imagination,  nor  invention, 
nor  industry,  nor  sensibility,  nor  energy,  nor 
any   other   good   having,  is   of  full   avail  with- 


32  BE  A  UTY. 

out  this  of  self-command,  whereby  works  truly 
masculine  and  mighty,  are  produced,  and  by  the 
signs  of  which  they  are  separated  from  that 
lower  host  of  things  brilliant,  magnificent,  and 
redundant,  and  farther  yet  from  that  of  the 
loose,  the  lawless,  the  exaggerated,  the  insolent, 
and  the  profane,  I  would  have  the  necessity  of 
it  foremost  among  all  our  inculcating,  and  the 
name  of  it  largest  among  all  our  inscribing,  in 
so  far  that,  over  the  doors  of  every  school  of 
Art,  I  would  have  this  one  word,  relieved  out  in 
deep  letters  of  pure  gold, — moderation. 

I  proceed  more  particularly  to  examine  the 
nature  of  that  second  kind  of  beauty  of  which  I 
spoke  as  consisting  in  "  the  appearance  of  felici- 
tous fulfilment  of  function  in  living  things."  I 
have  already  noticed  the  example  of  very  pure 
and  high  typical  beauty  which  is  to  be  found  in 
the  lines  and  gradations  of  unsullied  snow:  If, 
passing  to  the  edge  of  a  sheet  of  it,  upon  the 
lower  Alps,  early  in  May,  we  find,  as  we  are  nearly 
sure  to  find,  two  or  three  little  round  openings 
pierced  in  it,  and  through  these  emergent,  a 
slender,  pensive,  fragile  flower*  whose  small,  dark, 
purple-fringed  bell  hangs  down  and  shudders 
over  the  icy  cleft  that  it  has  cloven,  as  if  partly 
wondering  at  its  own  recent  grave,  and  partly 

*  Soldanella  Alpine, 


MOD  ERA  T/OJV.  3  3 

dying  of  very  fatigue  after  its  hard  won  victory; 
we  shall  be,  or  we  ought  to  be,  moved  by  a  totally 
different  impression  of  loveliness  from  that  which 
we  receive  among  the  dead  ice  and  the  idle 
clouds.  There  is  now  uttered  to  us  a  call  for 
sympathy,  now  offered  to  us  an  image  of  moral 
purpose  and  achievement,  which,  however  uncon- 
scious or  senseless  the  creature  may  indeed  be 
that  so  seems  to  call,  cannot  be  heard  without 
affection,  nor  contemplated  without  worship,  by 
any  of  us  whose  heart  is  rightly  tuned,  or  whose 
mind  is  clearly  and  surely  sighted. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  organic  creation 
every  being  in  a  perfect  state  exhibits  certain 
appearances,  or  evidences,  of  happiness,  and  be- 
sides is  in  its  nature,  its  desires,  its  modes  of 
nourishment,  habitation,  and  death,  illustrative 
or  expressive  of  certain  moral  dispositions  or 
principles.  Now,  first,  in  the  keenness  of  the 
sympathy  which  we  feel  in  the  happiness,  real  or 
apparent,  of  all  organic  beings,  and  which,  as  we 
shall  presently  see,  invariably  prompts  us,  from 
the  joy  we  have  in  it,  to  look  upon  those  as  most 
lovely  which  are  most  happy;  and  secondly,  in 
the  justness  of  the  moral  sense  which  rightly 
reads  the  lesson  they  are  all  intended  to  teach, 
and  classes  them  in  orders  of  worthiness  and 
beauty  according  to  the  rank  and  nature  of  that 
lesson,  whether  it  be  of  warning  or  example. 


34  BEAUTY. 

Its  first  perfection,  therefore,  relating  to  vital 
beauty,  is  the  kindness  and  unselfish  fulness  of 
heart,  which  receives  the  utmost  amount  of 
pleasure  from  the  happiness  of  all  things.  Of 
which  in  high  degree  the  heart  of  man  is  incapa- 
ble, neither  what  intense  enjoyment  the  angels 
may  have  in  all  that  they  see  of  things  that 
move  and  live,  and  in  the  part  they  take  in  the 
shedding  of  God's  kindness  upon  them,  can 
we  know  or  conceive:  only  in  proportion  as  we 
draw  near  to  God,  and  are  made  in  measure 
like  unto  him,  can  we  increase  this  our  posses- 
sion of  charity,  of  which  the  entire  essence  is  in 
God  only. 

Wherefore  it  is  evident  that  even  the  ordinary 
exercise  of  this  faculty  implies  a  condition  of  the 
whole  moral  being  in  some  measure  right  and 
healthy,  and  that  to  the  entire  exercise  of  it 
there  is  necessary  the  entire  perfection  of  the 
Christian  character,  for  he  who  loves  not  God, 
nor  his  brother,  cannot  love  the  grass  beneath 
his  feet  and  the  creatures  that  fill  those  spaces 
in  the  universe  which  he  needs  not,  and  which 
live  not  for  his  uses  ;  nay,  he  has  seldom  grace 
to  be  grateful  even  to  those  that  love  him  and 
serve  him,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  none  can 
love  God  nor  his  human  brother  without  loving 
all  things  which  his  Father  loves,  nor  without 
looking  upon  them  every  one  as  in  that  respect 


BEAUTY  IN  ANIMALS.  35 

his  brethren  also,  and  perhaps  worthier  than  he, 
if  in  the  under  concords  they  have  to  fill,  their 
part  is  touched  more  truly. 

For  it  is  matter  of  easy  demonstration,  that 
setting  the  characters  of  typical  beauty  aside,  the 
pleasure  afforded  by  every  organic  form  is  in 
proportion  to  its  appearance  of  healthy  vital 
energy;  as  in  a  rose  bush,  setting  aside  all  the 
considerations  of  gradated  flushing  of  color  and 
fair  folding  of  line,  which  it  shares  with  the  cloud 
or  the  snow-wreath,  we  find  in  and  through  all 
this  certain  signs  pleasant  and  acceptable  as  signs 
of  life  and  enjoyment  in  the  particular  individual 
plant  itself.  Every  leaf  and  stalk  is  seen  to  have 
a  function,  to  be  constantly  exercising  that  func- 
tion, and  as  it  seems  solely  for  the  good  and  en- 
joyment of  the  plant. 


BEAUTY  IN  ANIMALS. 

Of  eyes  we  shall  find  those  ugliest  which  have 
in  them  no  expression  nor  life  whatever,  but  a 
corpse-like  stare,  or  an  indefinite  meaningless 
glaring,  as  in  some  lights,  those  of  owls  and  cats, 
and  mostly  of  insects  and  of  all  creatures  in 
which  the  eye  seems  rather  an  external,  optical 
instrument  than  a  bodily  member  through  which 


36  BEAUTY. 

emotion  and  virtue  of  soul  may  be  expressed  (as 
pre-eminently  in  the  chameleon),  because  the 
seeming  want  of  sensibility  and  vitality  in  a  liv- 
ing creature  is  the  most  painful  of  all  wants.  And 
next  to  these  in  ugliness  come  the  eyes  that  gain 
vitality  indeed  but  only  by  means  of  the  expres- 
sion of  intense  malignity,  as  in  the  serpent  and 
alligator;  and  next  to  these,  to  whose  malignity 
is  added  the  virtue  of  subtlety  and  keenness,  as 
of  the  lynx  and  hawk;  and  then,  by  diminishing 
the  malignity  and  increasing  the  expressions  of 
comprehensiveness  and  determination,  we  arrive 
at  thos*  of  the  lion  and  eagle,  and  at  last,  by 
destroying  malignity  altogether,  at  the  fair  eye 
of  the  herbivorous  tribes,  wherein  the  superiority 
of  beauty  consists  always  in  the  greater  or  less 
sweetness  and  gentleness  primarily,  as  in  the 
gazelle,  camel,  and  ox,  and  in  the  greater  or  less 
intellect,  secondarily,  as  in  the  horse  and  dog, 
and  finally,  in  gentleness  and  intellect  both  in 
man.  And  again,  taking  the  mouth,  another 
source  of  expression,  we  find  it  ugliest  where  it 
has  none,  as  mostly  in  fish,  or  perhaps  where, 
without  gaining  much  in  expression  of  any  kind, 
it  becomes  a  formidable  destructive  instrument, 
as  again  in  the  alligator,  and  then,  by  some  in- 
crease of  expression,  we  arrive  at  birds'  beaks, 
wherein  there  is  more  obtained  by  the  different 
ways  of  setting  on  the  mandibles  than  is  com- 


BEAUTY  IN  ANIMALS.  37 

monly  supposed  (compare  the  bills  of  the  duck 
and  the  eagle),  and  thence  we  reach  the  finely- 
developed  lips  of  the  carnivora,  which  neverthe- 
less lose  that  beauty  they  have,  in  the  actions  of 
snarling  and  biting,  and  from  these  we  pass  to 
the  nobler  because  gentler  and  more  sensible,  of 
the  horse,  camel,  and  fawn,  and  so  again  up  to 
man,  only  there  is  less  traceableness  of  the  prin- 
ciple in  the  mouths  of  the  lower  animals,  because 
they  are  in  slight  measure  only  capable  of  expres- 
sion, and  chiefly  used  as  instruments,  and  that  of 
low  function,  whereas  in  man  the  mouth  is  given 
most  definitely  as  a  means  of  expression,  beyond 
and  above  its  lower  functions. 

We  are  to  take  it  for  granted,  that  every  crea- 
ture of  God  is  in  some  way  good,  and  has  a  duty 
and  specific  operation  providentially  accessory  to 
the  well-being  of  all;  we  are  to  look  in  this  faith 
to  that  employment  and  nature  of  each,  and  to 
derive  pleasure  from  their  entire  perfection  and 
fitness  for  the  duty  they  have  to  do,  and  in  their 
entire  fulfilment  of  it;  and  so  we  are  to  take 
pleasure  and  find  beauty  in  the  magnificent  bind- 
ing together  of  the  jaws  of  the  ichthyosaurus  for 
catching  and  holding,  and  in  the  adaptation  of 
the  lion  for  springing,  and  of  the  locust  for 
destroying,  and  of  the  lark  for  singing,  and  in 
every  creature  for  the  doing  of  that  which  God 
has  made  it  to  do. 


38  BEAUTY. 

HUMAN    BEAUTY. 

We  come  at  last  to  set  ourselves  face  to  face 
with  ourselves,  expecting  that  in  creatures  made 
after  the  image  of  God  we  are  to  find  comeli- 
ness and  completion  more  exquisite  than  in  the 
fowls  of  the  air  and  the  things  that  pass  through 
the  paths  of  the  sea. 

But  behold  now  a  sudden  change  from  all 
former  experience.  No  longer  among  the  indi- 
viduals of  the  race  is  there  equality  or  likeness, 
a  distributed  fairness  and  fixed  type  visible  in 
each,  but  evil  diversity,  and  terrible  stamp  of 
various  degradation;  features  seamed  with  sick- 
ness, dimmed  by  sensuality,  convulsed  by  pas- 
sion, pinched  by  poverty,  shadowed  by  sorrow, 
branded  with  remorse ;  bodies  consumed  with 
sloth,  broken  down  by  labor,  tortured  by  dis- 
ease, dishonored  in  foul  uses;  intellects  without 
power,  hearts  without  hope,  minds  earthly  and 
devilish;  our  bones  full  of  the  sin  of  our  youth, 
the  heaven  revealing  our  iniquity,  the  earth  ris- 
ing up  against  us,  the  roots  dried  up  beneath, 
and  the  branch  cut  off  above;  well  for  us  only, 
if,  after  beholding  this  our  natural  face  in  a 
glass,  we  desire  not  straightway  to  forget  what 
manner  of  men  we  be. 

Herein  there  is  at  last  something,  and  too 
much,  for  that  short,  stopping  intelligence  and 


HUMAN  BEAUTY.  39 

dull  perception  of  ours  to  accomplish,  whether 
in  earnest  fact,  or  in  the  seeking  for  the  out- 
ward image  of  beauty: — to  undo  the  devil's 
work,  to  restore  to  the  body  the  grace  and  the 
power  which  inherited  disease  has  destroyed,  to 
return  to  the  spirit  the  purity,  and  to  the  intel- 
lect the  grasp  that  they  had  in  Paradise.  Now, 
first  of  all,  this  work,  be  it  observed,  is  in  no 
respect  a  work  of  imagination.  Wrecked  we 
are,  and  nearly  all  to  pieces ;  but  that  little 
good  by  which  we  are  to  redeem  ourselves  is  to 
be  got  out  of  the  old  wreck,  beaten  about  and 
full  of  sand  though  it  be;  and  not  out  of  that 
desert  island  of  pride  on  which  the  devils  split 
first,  and  we  after  them:  and  so  the  only  resto- 
ration of  the  body  that  we  can  reach  is  not  to 
be  coined  out  of  our  fancies,  but  to  be  collected 
out  of  such  uninjured  and  bright  vestiges  of  the 
old  seal  as  we  can  find  and  set  together;  and  so 
the  ideal  of  the  features,  as  the  good  and  per- 
fect soul  is  seen  in  them,  is  not  to  be  reached 
by  imagination,  but  by  the  seeing  and  reaching 
forth  of  the  better  part  of  the  soul  to  that  of 
which  it  must  first  know  the  sweetness  and 
goodness  in  itself,  before  it  can  much  desire,  or 
rightly  find,  the  signs  of  it  in  others. 

The  operation  of  the  mind  upon  the  body, 
and  evidence  of  it  thereon,  may  be  considered 
under  three  heads: — 


40  BEAUTY. 

First,  the  intellectual  powers  upon  the  fea- 
tures, in  the  fine  cutting  and  chiselling  of  them, 
and  removal  from  them  of  signs  of  sensuality 
and  sloth,  by  which  they  are  blunted  and  dead- 
ened, and  substitution  of  energy  and  intensity 
for  vacancy  and  insipidity  (by  which  wants 
alone  the  faces  of  many  fair  women  are  utterly 
spoiled,  and  rendered  valueless),  and  by  the 
keenness  given  to  the  eye,  and  fine  moulding 
and  development  to  the  brow. 

The  second  point  to  be  considered  in  the  in- 
fluence of  mind  upon  body,  is  the  mode  of  opera- 
tion and  conjunction  of  the  moral  feelings  on 
and  with  the  intellectual  powers,  and  then  their 
conjoint  influence  on  the  bodily  form.  Now, 
the  operation  of  the  right  moral  feelings  on  the 
intellectual  is  always  for  the  good  of  the  latter, 
for  it  is  not  possible  that  selfishness  should  rea- 
son rightly  in  any  respect,  but  must  be  blind  in 
its  estimation  of  the  worthiness  of  all  things, 
neither  anger,  for  that  overpowers  the  reason  or 
outcries  it,  neither  sensuality,  for  that  overgrows 
and  chokes  it,  neither  agitation,  for  that  has  no 
time  to  compare  things  together,  neither  enmity, 
for  that  must  be  unjust,  neither  fear,  for  that 
exaggerates  all  things,  neither  cunning  and  de- 
ceit, for  that  which  is  voluntarily  untrue  will 
soon  be  unwittingly  so:  but  the  great  reasoners 
are   self-command,   and   trust   unagitated,    and 


HUMAN  BEAUTY.  .    4-1 

deep-looking  Love  and  Faith,  which,  as  she  is 
above  Reason,  so  she  best  holds  the  reins  of  it 
from  her  high  seat:  so  that  they  err  grossly  who 
think  of  the  right  development  even  of  the  in- 
tellectual type  as  possible,  unless  we  look  to 
higher  sources  of  beauty  first.  For  there  is  not 
any  virtue  the  exercise  of  which,  even  momen- 
tarily, will  not  impress  a  new  fairness  upon  the 
features ;  neither  on  them  only,  but  on  the 
whole  body,  both  the  intelligence  and  the  moral 
faculties  have  operation,  for  even  all  the  move- 
ment and  gestures,  however  slight,  are  different 
in  their  modes  according  to  the  mind  that  gov- 
erns them,  and  on  the  gentleness  and  decision 
of  just  feeling  there  follows  a  grace  of  action, 
and  through  continuance  of  this  a  grace  of  form, 
which  by  no  discipline  may  be  taught  or  at- 
tained. 

The  third  point  to  be  considered  with  respect 
to  the  corporeal  expression  of  mental  character 
is,  that  there  is  a  certain  period  of  the  soul  cul- 
ture when  it  begins  to  interfere  with  some  of 
the  characters  of  typical  beauty  belonging  to  the 
bodily  frame,  the  stirring  of  the  intellect  wear- 
ing down  the  flesh,  and  the  moral  enthusiasm 
burning  its  way  out  to  heaven,  through  the 
emaciation  of  the  earthen  vessel;  and  that  there 
is,  in  this  indication  of  subduing  of  the  mortal 
by  the  immortal  part,  an  ideal  glory  of  perhaps 


42      t  BEAUTY. 

a  purer  and  higher  range  than  that  of  the  more 
perfect  material  form.  We  conceive,  I  think, 
more  nobly  of  the  weak  presence  of  Paul  than 
of  the  fair  and  ruddy  countenance  of  Daniel. 

The  love  of  the  human  race  is  increased  by 
their  individual  differences,  and  the  unity  of  the 
creature  made  perfect  by  each  having  something 
to  bestow  and  to  receive,  bound  to  the  rest  by 
a  thousand  various  necessities  and  various  grati- 
tudes, humility  in  each  rejoicing  to  admire  in 
his  fellow  that  which  he  finds  not  in  himself, 
and  each  being  in  some  respect  the  complement 
of  his  race. 

In  investigating  the  signs  of  the  ideal,  or  per- 
fect type  of  humanity,  we  must  distinguish  be- 
tween differences  conceivably  existing  in  a  per- 
fect state,  and  differences  resulting  from  imme- 
diate and  present  operation  of  the  Adamite 
curse. 

As  it  is  impossible  that  any  essence  short  of 
the  Divine,  should  at  the  same  instant  be  equally 
receptive  of  all  emotions,  those  emotions  which, 
by  right  and  order,  have  the  most  usual  victory, 
both  leave  the  stamp  of  their  habitual  presence 
on  the  body,  and  render  the  individual  more 
and  more  susceptible  of  them  in  proportion  to 
the  frequency  of  their  prevalent  recurrence ; 
added  to  which,  causes  of  distinctive  character 
are  to  be  taken  into  account,  the  differences  of 


HUMAN  BEAUTY.  43 

age  and  sex,  which,  though  seemingly  of  more 
finite  influence,  cannot  be  banished  from  any- 
human  conception.  David,  ruddy  and  of  a  fair 
countenance,  with  the  brook  stone  of  deliver- 
ance in  his  hand,  is  not  more  ideal  than  David 
leaning  on  the  old  age  of  Barzillai,  returning 
chastened  to  his  kingly  home.  And  they  who 
are  as  the  angels  of  God  in  heaven,  yet  cannot 
be  conceived  as  so  assimilated  that  their  differ- 
ent experiences  and  affections  upon  earth  shall 
then  be  forgotten  and  effectless:  the  child  taken 
early  to  his  place  cannot  be  imagined  to  wear 
there  such  a  body,  nor  to  have  such  thoughts, 
as  the  glorified  apostle  who  has  finished  his 
course  and  kept  the  faith  on  earth.  And  so 
whatever  perfections  and  likeness  of  love  we 
may  attribute  to  either  the  tried  or  the  crowned 
creatures,  there  is  the  difference  of  the  stars  in 
glory  among  them  yet;  differences  of  original 
gifts,  though  not  of  occupying  till  their  Lord 
come,  different  dispensations  of  trial  and  of 
trust,  of  sorrow  and  support,  both  in  their  own 
inward,  variable  hearts,  and  in  their  positions  of 
exposure  or  of  peace,  of  the  gourd  shadow  and 
the  smiting  sun,  of  calling  at  heat  of  day  or 
eleventh  hour,  of  the  house  unroofed  by  faith, 
and  the  clouds  opened  by  revelation;  differ- 
ences in  warning,  in  mercies,  in  sicknesses,  in 
signs,  in  time  of  calling  to  account;   like  only 


44  BEAUTY. 

they  all  are  by  that  which  is  not  of  them,  but 
the  gift  of  God's  unchangeable  mercy.  "  I  will 
give  unto  this  last  even  as  unto  thee." 

Those  signs  of  evil  which  are  commonly  most 
manifest  on  the  human  features  are  roughly  di- 
visible into  these  four  kinds:  the  signs  of  pride, 
of  sensuality,  of  fear,  and  of  cruelty.  Any  one 
of  which  will  destroy  the  ideal  character  of  the 
countenance  and  body. 

Now  of  these,  the  first,  pride,  is  perhaps  the 
most  destructive  of  all  the  four,  seeing  it  is  the 
undermost  and  original  story  of  all  sin. 

The  second  destroyer  of  human  beauty,  is  the 
appearance  of  sensual  character,  more  difficult 
to  trace,  owing  to  its  peculiar  subtlety. 

"  Of  all  God's  works,  which  doe  this  worlde  adorn, 
There  is  no  one  more  faire,  and  excellent 
Than  is  man's  body  both  for  power  and  forme 
Whiles  it  is  kept  in  sober  government. 
But  none  than  it  more  foul  and  indecent 
Distempered  through  misrule  and  passions  bace." 

Respecting  those  two  other  vices  of  the  human 
face,  the  expressions  of  fear  and  ferocity,  these 
only  occasionally  enter  into  the  conception  of 
character. 

Among  the  children  of  God,  while  there  is 
always  that  fearful  and  bowed  apprehension  of 
his  majesty,  and  that  sacred  dread  of  all  offence 
to  him,  which  is  called  the  fear  of  God,  yet  of 


HUMAN  BEAUTY.  45 

real  and  essential  fear  there  is  not  any,  but 
clinging  of  confidence  to  him,  as  their  Rock, 
Fortress,  and  Deliverer,  and  perfect  love,  and 
casting  out  of  fear,  so  that  it  is  not  possible 
that  while  the  mind  is  rightly  bent  on  him, 
there  should  be  dread  of  anything  either  earthl) 
or  supernatural,  and  the  more  dreadful  seems 
the  height  of  his  majesty,  the  less  fear  they 
feel  that  dwell  in  the  shadow  of  it  ("  Of  whom 
shall  I  be  afraid  ?")  so  that  they  are  as  David 
was,  devoted  to  his  fear;  whereas,  on  the  other 
hand,  those  who,  if  they  may  help  it,  never 
conceive  of  God,  but  thrust  away  all  thought 
and  memory  of  him,  and  in  his  real  terribleness 
and  omnipresence  fear  him  not  nor  know  him, 
yet  are  of  real  acute,  piercing,  and  ignoble 
fear,  haunted  for  evermore  ;  fear  inconceiving 
and  desperate  that  calls  to  the  rocks,  and  hides 
in  the  dust;  and  hence  the  peculiar  baseness  of 
the  expression  of  terror,  a  baseness  attributed 
to  it  in  all  times,  and  among  all  nations,  as  of  a 
passion  atheistical,  brutal,  and  profane.  So 
also,  it  is  always  joined  with  ferocity,  which  is 
of  all  passions  the  least  human;  for  of  sensual 
desires  there  is  license  to  men,  as  necessity;  and 
of  vanity  there  is  intellectual  cause,  so  that 
when  seen  in  a  brute  it  is  pleasant,  and  a  sign 
of  good  wit;  and  of  fear  there  is  at  times  ne- 
cessity and  excuse  as  being  allowed  for  preven- 


46  BEAUTY. 

tion  of  harm;  but  of  ferocity  there  is  no  excuse 
nor  palliation,  but  it  is  pure  essence  of  tiger  and 
demon,  and  it  casts  on  the  human  face  the  pale- 
ness alike  of  the  horse  of  Death,  and  the  ashes 
of  hell. 

These,  then,  are  the  four  passions  whose  pres- 
ence in  any  degree  on  the  human  face  is  degra- 
dation. But  of  all  passion  it  is  to  be  generally 
observed,  that  it  becomes  ignoble  either  when  en- 
tertained respecting  unworthy  objects,  and  there- 
fore shallow  or  unjustifiable,  or  when  of  impious 
violence,  and  so  destructive  of  human  dignity. 
Thus  grief  is  noble  or  the  reverse,  according  to 
the  dignity  and  worthiness  of  the  object  la- 
mented, and  the  grandeur  of  the  mind  enduring 
it.  The  sorrow  of  mortified  vanity  or  avarice  is 
simply  disgusting,  even  that  of  bereaved  affec- 
tion may  be  base  if  selfish  and  unrestrained. 
All  grief  that  convulses  the  features  is  ignoble, 
because  it  is  commonly  shallow  and  certainly 
temporary,  as  in  children,  though  in  the  shock 
and  shiver  of  a  strong  man's  features  under  sud- 
den and  violent  grief  there  may  be  something  of 
sublime. 

"  That  beauty  is  not,  as  fond  men  misdeem 
An  outward  show  of  things,  that  only  seem  ; 
But  that  fair  lamp,  from  whose  celestial  ray 
That  light  proceeds,  which  kindleth  lovers'  fire, 
Shall  never  be  extinguished  nor  decay. 


THE  IDEAL.  47 

But  when  the  vital  spirits  do  expire, 
Unto  her  native  planet  shall  retire, 
For  it  is  heavenly  born  and  cannot  die 
Being  a  parcel  of  the  purest  sky." 


THE     IDEAL. 


The  perfect  idea  of  the  form  and  condition  in 
which  all  the  properties  of  the  species  are  fully- 
developed,  is  called  the  ideal  of  the  species. 
The  question  of  the  nature  of  ideal  conception 
of  species,  and  of  the  mode  in  which  the  mind 
arrives  at  it,  has  been  the  subject  of  so  much 
discussion,  and  source  of  so  much  embarrass- 
ment, chiefly  owing  to  that  unfortunate  distinc- 
tion between  idealism  and  realism  which  leads 
most  people  to  imagine  the  ideal  opposed  to  the 
real,  and  therefore  false,  that  I  think  it  neces- 
sary to  request  the  reader's  most  careful  atten- 
tion to  the  following  positions. 

Any  work  of  art  which  represents,  not  a  ma- 
terial object,  but  the  mental  conception  of  a 
material  object,  is  in  the  primary  sense  of  the 
word  ideal  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  represents  an  idea, 
and  not  a  thing.  Any  work  of  art  which  'rep- 
resents or  realizes  a  material  object,  is,  in  the 
primary  sense  of  the  term,  unideal. 


48  BE  A  UTY. 

Ideal  works  of  art,  therefore,  in  this  first 
sense,  represent  the  result  of  an  act  of  imagina- 
tion, and  are  good  or  bad  in  proportion  to  the 
healthy  condition  and  general  power  of  the  im- 
agination, whose  acts  they  represent. 

Unideal  works  of  art  (the  studious  produc- 
tion of  which  is  termed  realism)  represent  act- 
ual existing  things,  and  are  good  or  bad  in  pro- 
portion to  the  perfection  of  the  representation. 

All  entirely  bad  works  of  art  may  be  divided 
into  those  which,  professing  to  be  imaginative, 
bear  no  stamp  of  imagination,  and  are  therefore 
false,  and  those  which  professing  to  be  repre- 
sentative of  matter,  miss  of  the  representation 
and  are  therefore  nugatory. 

The  idea,  therefore,  of  the  park  oak  is  full 
size,  united  terminal  curve,  equal  and  symmetri- 
cal range  of  branches  on  each  side.  The  ideal 
of  the  mountain  oak  may  be  anything  twisting, 
and  leaning,  and  shattered,  and  rock-encum- 
bered, so  only  that  amidst  all  its  misfortunes,  it 
maintain  the  dignity  of  oak  ;  and,  indeed,  I  look 
upon  this  kind  of  tree  as  more  ideal  than  the 
other,  in  so  far  as  by  its  efforts  and  struggles, 
more  of  its  nature,  enduring  power,  patience  in 
waiting  for,  and  ingenuity  in  obtaining  what  it 
wants,  is  brought  out,  and  so  more  of  the  essence 
of  oak  exhibited,  than  under  more  fortunate 
conditions. 


THE  IDEAL.  49 

■  The  ranunculus  glacialis  might  perhaps,  by 
cultivation,  be  blanched  from  its  wan  and  corpse- 
like paleness  to.  purer  white,  and  won  to  more 
branched  and  lofty  development  of  its  ragged 
leaves.  But  the  ideal  of  the  plant  is  to  be 
found  only  in  the  last,  loose  stones  of  the  mo- 
raine, alone  there  ;  wet  with  the  cold,  unkindly 
drip  of  the  glacier  water,  and  trembling  as  the 
loose  and  steep  dust  to  which  it  clings  yields 
ever  and  anon,  and  shudders  and  crumbles  away 
from  about  its  root. 

And  if  it  be  asked  how  this  conception  of  the 
utmost  beauty  of  ideal  form  is  consistent  with 
what  we  formerly  argued  respecting  the  pleas- 
antness of  the  appearance  of  [felicity  in  the 
creature,  let  it  be  observed,  and  for  ever  held, 
that  the  right  and  true  happiness  of  every  crea- 
ture, is  in  ^this  very  discharge  of  its  function, 
and  in  those  efforts  by  which  its  strength  and  in- 
herent energy  are  developed  :  and  that  the  re- 
pose of  which  we  also  spoke  as  necessary  to  all 
beauty,  is,  as  was  then  stated,  repose  not  of  in- 
anition, nor  of  luxury,  nor  of  irresolution,  but 
the  repose  of  magnificent  energy  and  being  ;  in 
action,  the  calmness  of  trust  and  determination  ; 
in  rest,  the  consciousness  of  duty  accomplished 
and  of  victory  won,  and  this  repose  and  this 
felicity  can  take  place  as  well  in  the  midst  of 
trial,  and  tempest,  as  beside  the  waters  of  com- 


SO  BEA  UTY. 

i 
fort  ;  they  perish  only  when  the  creature  is 
either  unfaithful  to  itself,  or  is  afflicted  by  circum- 
stances unnatural  and  malignant  to  its  being, 
and  for  the  contending  with  which  it  was  neither 
fitted  nor  ordained.  Hence  that  rest  which  is 
indeed  glorious  is  of  the  chamois  couched 
breathless  on  his  granite  bed,  not  of  the  stalled 
ox  over  his  fodder  ;  and  that  happiness  which 
is  indeed  beautiful  is  in  the  bearing  of  those 
trial  tests  which  are  appointed  for  the  proving 
of  every  creature,  whether  it  be  good,  or 
whether  it  be  evil.  Of  all  creatures  whose  ex- 
istence involves  birth,  progress,  and  dissolution, 
ideality  is  predicable  all  through  their  existence, 
so  that  they  be  perfect  with  reference  to  their 
supposed  period  of  being.  Thus  there  is  an 
ideal  of  infancy,  of  youth,  of  old  age,  of  death, 
and  of  decay.  But  when  the  ideal  form  of  the 
species  is  spoken  of  or  conceived  in  general 
terms,  the  form  is  understood  to  be  of  that 
period  when  the  generic  attributes  are  perfectly 
developed,  and  previous  to  the  commencement 
of  their  decline.  At  which  period  all  the  char- 
acters of  vital  and  typical  beauty  are  commonly 
most  concentrated  in  them,  though  the  arrange- 
ment and  proportion  of  these  characters  varies 
at  different  periods,  youth  having  more  of  the 
vigorous  beauty,  and  age  of  the  reposing  ;  youth 
of  typical  outward  fairness,  and  age  of  expanded 


THE   IDEAL.  51 

and  etherealized  moral  expression  ;  the  babe, 
again,  in  some  measure  atoning  in  gracefulness 
for  its  want  of  strength,  so  that  the  balanced 
glory  of  the  creature  continues  in  solemn  inter- 
change, perhaps  even 

"  Filling  more  and  more  with  crystal  light, 
As  pensive  evening  deepens  into  night." 

Our  purity  of  taste  is  best  tested  by  its  uni- 
versality. If  we  can  only  admire  this  thing  or 
that,  we  may  be  sure  that  our  cause  for  liking  is 
of  a  finite  and  false  nature.  But  if  we  can  per- 
ceive beauty  in  everything  of  God's  doing,  we 
may  argue  that  we  have  reached  the  true  per- 
ception of  its  universal  laws.  Hence,  false  taste 
may  be  known  by  its  fastidiousness,  by  its  de- 
mands of  pomp,  splendor,  and  unusual  combina- 
tion ;  by  its  enjoyment  only  of  particular  styles 
and  modes  of  things,  and  by  its  pride  also,  for 
it  is  for  ever  meddling,  mending,  accumulating, 
and  self-exulting,  its  eye  is  always  upon  itself, 
and  it  tests  all  things  around  it  by  the  way  they 
fit  it.  But  true  taste  is  for  ever  growing,  learn- 
ing, reading,  worshipping,  laying  its  hand  upon 
its  mouth  because  it  is  astonished,  casting  its 
shoes  from  off  its  feet  because  it  finds  all  ground 
holy,  lamenting  over  itself,  and  testing  itself  by 
the  way  that  it  fits  things.  And  it  finds  whereof 
to  feed,  and  whereby  to  grow,  in  all  things,  and 


52 


BEAUTY. 


therefore  the  complaint  so  often  made  by  young 
artists  that  they  have  not  within  their  reach 
materials,  or  subjects  enough  for  their  fancy, 
is  utterly  groundless,  and  the  sign  only  of  their 
own  blindness  and  inefficiency  ;  for  there  is  that 
to  be  seen  in  every  street  and  lane  of  every 
city — that  to  be  felt  and  found  in  every  human 
heart  and  countenance,  that  to  be  loved  in  every 
road-side  weed  and  moss-grown  wall,  which,  in 
the  hands  of  faithful  men,  may  convey  emotions 
of  glory  and  sublimity  continual  and  exalted. 


|)art  2. 
NA  TURE. 


"  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  lieart  that  loved  her ;  ''tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  ;  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues 
Rash  judgment,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men 
ShacZ  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Ou,  ateerful  faith  that  all  which  we  belwld 
Is  full  of  blessings.'"  Wordsworth. 


PART   II. 

NA  TU RE. 
THE    SKY. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  how  little  in  general  people 
know  about  the  sky.  It  is  the  part  of  creation 
in  which  nature  has  done  more  for  the  sake  of 
pleasing  man,  more  for  the  sole  and  evident  pur- 
pose of  talking  to  him  and  teaching  him,  than  in 
any  other  of  her  works,  and  it  is  just  the  part  in 
which  we  least  attend  to  her.  There  are  not 
many  of  her  other  works  in  which  some  more 
material  or  essential  purpose  than  the  mere 
pleasing  of  man  is  not  answered  by  every  part  of 
their  organization  ;  but  every  essential  purpose 
of  the  sky  might,  so  far  as  we  know,  be  answered, 
if  once  in  three  days,  or  thereabouts,  a  great 
ugly  black  rain  cloud  were  brought  up  over  the 
blue,  and  everything  well  watered,  and  so  all  left 
blue  again  till  next  time,  with  perhaps  a  film  of 
morning  and  evening  mist  for  dew.  And  instead 
of  this,  there  is  not  a  moment  of  any  day  of  our 
lives,  when  nature  is  not  producing  scene  after 

55 


$6  NA  TURE. 

scene,  picture  after  picture,  glory  after  glory, 
and  working  still  upon  such  exquisite  and  con- 
stant principles  of  the  most  perfect  beauty,  that 
it  is  quite  certain  it  is  all  done  for  us,  and  in- 
tended for  our  perpetual  pleasure.  And  every 
man,  wherever  placed,  however  far  from  other 
sources  of  interest  or  of  beauty,  has  this  doing 
for  him  constantly.  The  noblest  scenes  of  the 
earth  can  be  seen  and  known  but  by  few  ;  it  is 
not  intended  that  man  should  live  always  in  the 
midst  of  them,  he  injures  them  by  his  presence, 
he  ceases  to  feel  them  if  he  be  always  with  them  ; 
but  the  sky  is  for  all  ;  bright  as  it  is,  it  is  not 
"  too  bright,  nor  good,  for  human  nature's  daily 
food  ;"  it  is  fitted  in  all  its  functions  for  the  per- 
petual comfort  and  exalting  of  the  heart,  for  the 
soothing  it  and  purifying  it  from  its  dross  and 
dust.  Sometimes  gentle,  sometimes  capricious, 
sometimes  awful,  never  the  same  for  two  mo- 
ments together  ;  almost  human  in  its  passions, 
almost  spiritual  in  its  tenderness,  almost  divine 
in  its  infinity,  its  appeal  to  what  is  immortal  in 
us,  is  as  distinct,  as  its  ministry  of  chastisement 
or  of  blessing  to  what  is  mortal  is  essential. 
And  yet  we  never  attend  to  it,  we  never  make  it 
a  subject  of  thought,  but  as  it  has  to  do  with 
our  animal  sensations  ;  we  look  upon  all  by  which 
it  speaks  to  us  more  clearly  than  to  brutes,  upon 
all  which  bears  witness  to  the  intention  of  the 


THE   SKY.  57 

Supreme,  that  we  are  to  receive  more  from  the 
covering  vault  than  the  light  and  the  dew  which 
we  share  with  the  weed  and  the  worm,  only  as  a 
succession  of  meaningless  and  monotonous  acci- 
dent, too  common  and  too  vain  to  be  worthy  of 
a  moment  of  watchfulness,  or  a  glance  of  admira- 
tion. If  in  our  moments  of  utter  idleness  and 
insipidity,  we  turn  to  the  sky  as  a  last  resource, 
which  of  its  phenomena  do  we  speak  of  ?  One 
says  it  has  been  wet,  and  another  it  has  been 
windy,  and  another  it  has  been  warm.  Who, 
among  the  whole  chattering  crowd,  can  tell  me 
of  the  forms  and  the  precipices  of  the  chain  of 
tall  white  mountains  that  girded  the  horizon  at 
noon  yesterday  ?  Who  saw  the  narrow  sunbeam 
that  came  out  of  the  south  and  smote  upon  their 
summits  until  they  melted  and  mouldered  away 
in  a  dust  of  blue  rain  ?  Who  saw  the  dance  of 
the  dead  clouds  when  the  sunlight  left  them  last 
night,  and  the  west  wind  blew  them  before  it 
like  withered  leaves  ?  All  has  passed,  unregret- 
ted  as  unseen  ;  or  if  the  apathy  be  ever  shaken 
off,  even  for  an  instant,  it  is  only  by  what  is 
gross,  or  what  is  extraordinary  ;  and  yet  it  is  not 
in  the  broad  and  fierce  manifestations  of  the  ele- 
mental energies,  not  in  the  clash  of  the  hail,  nor 
the  drift  of  the  whirlwind,  that  the  highest  char- 
acters of  the  sublime  are  developed.  God  is  not 
in  the  earthquake,  nor  in  the  fire,  but  in  the  still 


58  NATURE. 

small  voice.  They  are  but  the  blunt  and  low- 
faculties  of  our  nature,  which  can  only  be  ad- 
dressed through  lampblack  and  lightning.  It  is 
in  quiet  and  subdued  passages  of  unobtrusive 
majesty,  the  deep,  and  the  calm,  and  the  per- 
petual,— that  which  must  be  sought  ere  it  is 
seen,  and  loved  ere  it  is  understood, — things 
which  the  angels  work  out  for  us  daily,  and  yet 
vary  eternally,  which  are  never  wanting,  and 
never  repeated,  which  are  to  be  found  always, 
yet  each  found  but  once  ;  it  is  through  these 
that  the  lesson  of  devotion  is  chiefly  taught,  and 
the  blessing  of  beauty  given.  These  are  what 
the  artist  of  highest  aim  must  study  ;  it  is  these, 
by  the  combination  of  which  his  ideal  is  to  be 
created  ;  these,  of  which  so  little  notice  is  ordi- 
narily taken  by  common  observers,  that  I  fully 
believe,  little  as  people  in  general  are  concerned 
with  art,  more  of  their  ideas  of  sky  are  derived 
from  pictures  than  from  reality,  and  that  if  we 
could  examine  the  conception  formed  in  the 
minds  of  most  educated  persons  when  we  talk  of 
clouds,  it  would  frequently  be  found  composed 
of  fragments  of  blue  and  white  reminiscences  of 
the  old  masters. 

"  The  chasm  of  sky  above  my  head 
Is  Heaven's  profoundest  azure.     No  domain 
For  fickle,  short-lived  clouds,  to  occupy, 
Or  to  pass  through  ;  but  rather  an  abyss 


THE   SKY.  59 

In  which  the  everlasting  ^stars  abide, 

And  whose  soft  gloom,  and  boundless  depth,  might  tempt 

The  curious  eye  to  look  for  them  by  day." 

And,  in  his  American  Notes,  I  remember  Dickens 
notices  the  same  truth,  describing  himself  as  ly- 
ing drowsily  on  the  barge  deck,  looking  not  at, 
but  through  the  sky.  And  if  you  look  intensely 
at  the  pure  blue  of  a  serene  sky,  you  will  see 
that  there  is  a  variety  and  fulness  in  its  very  re- 
pose. It  is  not  flat  dead  color,  but  a  deep, 
quivering,  transparent  body  of  penetrable  air,  in 
which  you  trace  or  imagine  short,  falling  spots 
of  deceiving  light,  and  dim  shades,  faint,  veiled 
vestiges  of  dark  vapor. 

It  seems  to  me  that  in  the  midst  of  the  mate- 
rial nearness  of  the  heavens  God  means  us  to  ac- 
knowledge His  own  immediate  presence  as  visit- 
ing, judging,  and  blessing  us.  "  The  earth  shook, 
the  heavens  also  dropped,  at  the  presence  of 
God."  "  He  doth  set  his  bow  in  the  cloud," 
and  thus  renews,  in  the  sound  of  every  drooping 
swathe  of  rain,  his  promises  of  everlasting  love. 
"  In  them  hath  he  set  a  tabernacle  for  the  sun;" 
whose  burning  ball,  which  without  the  firmament 
would  be  seen  as  an  intolerable  and  scorching 
circle  in  the  blackness  of  vacuity,  is  by  that 
firmament  surrounded  with  gorgeous  service,  and 
tempered  by  mediatorial  ministries;  by  the  firma- 
ment of  clouds  the  golden  pavement  is  spread 


60  NA  TURE. 

for  his  chariot  wheels  at  morning  ;  by  the  firma- 
ment of  clouds  the  temple  is  built  for  his  pres- 
ence to  fill  with  light  at  noon;  by  the  firmament 
of  clouds  the  purple  veil  is  closed  at  evening 
round  the  sanctuary  of  his  rest;  by  the  mists  of 
the  firmament  his  implacable  light  is  divided, 
and  its  separated  fierceness  appeased  into  the 
soft  blue  that  fills  the  depth  of  distance  with  its 
bloom,  and  the  flush  with  which  the  mountains 
burn  as  they  drink  the  overflowing  of  the  day- 
spring.  And  in  this  tabernacling  of  the  unen- 
durable sun  with  men,  through  the  shadows  of 
the  firmament,  God  would  seem  to  set  forth  the 
stooping  of  His  own  majesty  to  men,  upon  the 
throne  of  the  firmament.  As  the  Creator  of  all 
the  worlds,  and  the  Inhabiter  of  eternity,  we 
cannot  behold  Him  ;  but  as  the  Judge  of  the 
earth  and  the  Preserver  of  men,  those  heavens 
are  indeed  His  dwelling-place.  "  Swear  not, 
neither  by  heaven  ;  for  it  is  God's  throne:  nor  by 
the  earth,  for  it  is  his  footstool."  And  all  those 
passings  to  and  fro  of  fruitful  shower  and  grate- 
ful shade,  and  all  those  visions  of  silver  palaces 
built  about  the  horizon,  and  voices  of  moaning 
winds  and  threatening  thunders,  and  glories  of 
colored  robe  and  cloven  ray,  are  but  to  deepen 
in  our  hearts  the  acceptance,  and  distinctness, 
and  dearness  of  the  simple  words,  "  Our  Father, 
which  art  in  heaven." 


CLOUDS. 


CLOUDS. 


61 


The  first  and  most  important  character  of 
clouds,  is  dependent  on  the  different  altitudes 
at  which  they  are  formed.  The  atmosphere 
may  be  conveniently  considered  as  divided  into 
three  spaces,  each  inhabited  by  clouds  of  specific 
character  altogether  different,  though,  in  reality, 
there  is  no  distinct  limit  fixed  between  them  by 
nature,  clouds  being  formed  at  every  altitude, 
and  partaking,  according  to  their  altitude,  more 
or  less  of  the  characters  of  the  upper  or  lower 
regions.  The  scenery  of  the  sky  is  thus  formed 
of  an  infinitely  graduated  series  of  systematic 
forms  of  clouds,  each  of  which  has  its  own  re- 
gion in  which:  alone  it  is  formed,  and  each  of 
which  has  specific  characters  which  can  only  be 
properly  determined  by  comparing  them  as  they 
are  found  clearly  distinguished  by  intervals  of 
considerable  space.  I  shall  therefore  consider 
the  sky  as  divided  into  three  regions — the  upper 
region,  or  region  of  the  cirrus  ;  the  central  re- 
gion, or  region  of  the  stratus  ;  the  lower  region, 
or  the  region  of  the  rain-cloud. 

The  clouds  which  I  wish  to  consider  as  in- 
cluded in  the  upper  region,  never  touch  even  the 
highest  mountains  of  Europe,  and  may  therefore 
be  looked  upon  as  never  formed  below  an  eleva- 


62  NA  TURE. 

tion  of  at  least  15,000  feet  ;  they  are  the  motion- 
less multitudinous  lines  of  delicate  vapor  with 
which  the  blue  of  the  open  sky  is  commonly 
streaked  or  speckled  after  several  days  of  fine 
weather.  I  must  be  pardoned  for  giving  a  de- 
tailedjlescription  of  their  specific  characters,  as 
they  are  of  constant  occurrence  in  the  works  of 
modern  artists,  and  I  shall  have  occasion  to  speak 
frequently  of  them  in  future  parts  of  the  work. 
Their  chief  characters  are — 

First,  Symmetry:  They  are  nearly  always  ar- 
ranged in  some  definite  and  evident  order,  com- 
monly in  long  ranks,  reaching  sometimes  from 
the  zenith  to  the  horizon,  each  rank  composed 
of  an  infinite  number  of  transverse  bars  of  about 
the  same  length,  each  bar  thickest  in  the  middle, 
and  terminating  in  a  traceless  vaporous  point  at 
each  side  ;  the  ranks  are  in  the  direction  of  the 
wind,  and  the  bars  of  course  at  right  angles  to 
it.  The  groups  of  fine,  silky,  parallel  fibres, 
terminating  in  a  plumy  sweep,  are  vulgarly  known 
as  "  mares'  tails." 

Secondly,  Sharpness  of  Edge  :  The  edges  of 
the  bars  of  the  upper  clouds  which  are  turned  to 
the  wind  are  often  the  sharpest  which  the  sky 
shows  ;  no  outline  whatever  of  any  other  kind 
of  cloud,  however  marked  and  energetic,  ever 
approaches  the  delicate  decision  of  those  edges. 

Thirdly,   Multitude:    The  delicacy  of  these 


CLOUDS.  63 

vapors  is  sometimes  carried  into  an  infinity  of 
division.  Nor  is  nature  content  with  an  in- 
finity of  bars  or  lines  alone — each  bar  is  in  its 
turn  severed  intp  a  number  of  small  undulatory 
masses,  more  or  less  connected  according  to  the 
violence  of  the  wind.  When  this  division  is 
merely  effected  by  undulation,  the  cloud  exactly 
resembles  sea-sand  ribbed  by  the  tide;  but  when 
the  division  amounts  to  real  separation  we  have 
the  mottled  or  "  mackerel  "  skies. 

Fourthly,  Purity  of  Color  :  The  nearest  of 
these  clouds — those  over  the  observer's  head, 
being  at  least  three  miles  above  him,  and  nearly 
all  entering  the  ordinary  sphere  of  vision,  farther 
from  him  still, — their  dark  sides  are  much  grayer 
and  cooler  than  those  of  other  clouds,  owing  to 
their  distance.  They  are  composed  of  the  pur- 
est aqueous  vapor,  free  from  all  foulness  of 
earthly  gases,  and  of  this  in  the  lightest  and 
most  ethereal  state  in  which  it  can  be,  to  be  visi- 
ble. Farther,  they  receive  the  light  of  the  sun 
in  a  state  of  far  greater  intensity  than  lower  ob- 
jects, the  beams  being  transmitted  to  them 
through  atmospheric  air  far  less  dense,  and 
wholly  unaffected  by  mist,  smoke,  or  any  other 
impurity.  Hence  their  colors  are  more  pure  and 
vivid,  and  their  white  less  sullied  than  those  of 
any  other  clouds. 

Lastly,  Variety:  Variety  is  never  so  conspicu- 


64  NA  TURE. 

ous,  as  when  it  is  united  with  symmetry.  The 
perpetual  change  of  form  in  other  clouds,  is  mo- 
notonous in  its  very  dissimilarity,  nor  is  differ- 
ence striking  where  no  connection  is  implied; 
but  if  through  a  range  of  barred  clouds,  crossing 
half  the  heaven,  all  governed  by  the  same  forces 
and  falling  into  one  general  form,  there  be  yet  a 
marked  and  evident  dissimilarity  between  each 
member  of  the  great  mass — one  more  finely 
drawn,  the  next  more  delicately  moulded,  the 
next  more  gracefully  bent — each  broken  into  dif- 
ferently modelled  and  variously  numbered  groups, 
the  variety  is  doubly  striking,  because  contrasted 
with  the  perfect  symmetry  of  which  it  forms  a 
part. 

Under  all,  perhaps  the  massy  outline  of  some 
lower  cloud  moves  heavily  across  the  motionless 
buoyancy  of  the  upper  lines,  and  indicates  at 
once  their  elevation  and  their  repose. 

A  fine  and  faithful  description  of  these  clouds 
is  given  by  Wordsworth  in  "  The  Excursion." 

"  But  rays  of  light 
Now  suddenly  diverging  from  the  orb, 
Retired  behind  the  mountain  tops,  or  veiled 
By  the  dense  air,  shot  upwards  to  the  crown 
Of  the  blue  firmament — aloft — and  wide: 
And  multitudes  of  little  floating  clouds, 
Ere  we,  who  saw,  of  change  were  conscious,  pierced 
Through  their  ethereal  texture,  had  become 
Vivid  as  fire, — Clouds  separately  poised, 


CLOUDS.  65 

Innumerable  multitude  of  forms 
Scattered  through  half  the  circle  of  the  sky 
And  giving  back,  and  shedding  each  on  each, 
With  prodigal  communion,  the  bright  hues 
Which  from  the  unapparent  fount  of  glory 
They  had  imbibed,  and  ceased  not  to  receive. 
That  which  the  heavens  displayed  the  liquid  deep 
Repeated,  but  with  unity  sublime." 

Their  slow  movement  Shelley  has  beautifully 
touched — 

"Underneath  the  young  gray  dawn 
A  multitude  of  dense,  white  fleecy  clouds, 
Were  wandering  in  thick  flocks  along  the  mountains, 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind." 

If  you  watch  for  the  next  sunset,  when  there 
are  a  considerable  number  of  these  cirri  in  the 
sky,  you  will  see,  especially  at  the  zenith,  that 
the  sky  does  not  remain  of  the  same  color  for 
two  inches  together;  one  cloud  has  a  dark  side 
of  cold  blue,  and  a  fringe  of  milky  white;  an- 
other, above  it,  has  a  dark  side  of  purple  and  an 
edge  of  red;  another,  nearer  the  sun,  has  an  un- 
der-side of  orange  and  an  edge  of  gold;  these 
you  will  find  mingled  with,  and  passing  into  the 
blue  of  the  sky,  which  in  places  you  will  not  be 
able  to  distinguish  from  the  cool  gray  of  the 
darker  clouds,  and  which  will  be  itself  full  of 
gradation,  now  pure  and  deep,  now  faint  and 
feeble;  and  all  this  is  done,  not  in  large  pieces, 


66  XA  TURE. 

nor  on  a  large  scale,  but  over  and  over  again  in 
every  square  yard,  so  that  there  is  no  single  part 
nor  portion  of  the  whole  sky  which  has  not  in 
itself  variety  of  color  enough  for  a  separate  pic- 
ture, and  yet  no  single  part  which  is  like  an- 
other, or  which  has  not  some  peculiar  source  of 
beauty,  and  some  peculiar  arrangement  of  color 
of  its  own. 


THE   CENTRAL    CLOUD    REGION, 

I  consider  as  including  all  clouds  which  are 
the  usual  characteristic  of  ordinary  serene 
weather,  and  which  touch  and  envelope  the 
mountains  of  Switzerland;  they  may  be  consid- 
ered as  occupying  a  space  of  air  ten  thousand 
feet  in  height,  extending  from  five  to  fifteen 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 

These  clouds,  according  to  their  elevation, 
appear  with  great  variety  of  form,  often  partak- 
ing of  the  streaked  or  mottled  character  of  the 
higher  region,  and  as  often,  when  the  precursors 
of  storm,  manifesting  forms  closely  connected 
with  the  lowest  rain  clouds;  but  the  species  es- 
pecially characteristic  of  the  central  region  is  a 
white,  ragged,  irregular,  and  scattered  vapor, 
and  which  has  little  form  and  less  color. 


THE    CENTRAL    CLOUD  REGION.  67 

But  although  this  kind  of  cloud  is,  as  I  have 
said,  typical  of  the  central  region,  it  is  not  one 
which  nature  is  fond  of.  She  scarcely  ever  lets 
an  hour  pass  without  some  manifestation  of 
finer  forms,  sometimes  approaching  the  upper 
cirri,  sometimes  the  lower  cumulus.  And  then 
in  the  lower  outlines,  we  have  the  nearest  ap- 
proximation which  nature  ever  presents  to  the 
clouds  of  Claude,  Salvator,  and  Poussin.  When 
vapor  collects  into  masses,  it  is  partially  rounded, 
clumsy,  and  ponderous,  as  if  it  would  tumble 
out  of  the  sky,  shaded  with  a  dull  gray,  and  to- 
tally devoid  of  any  appearance  of  energy  or  mo- 
tion. Even  in  nature,  these  clouds  are  com- 
paratively uninteresting,  scarcely  worth  raising 
our  heads  to  look  at;  and  on  canvas,  valuable 
only  as  a  means  of  introducing  light,  and  break- 
ing the  monotony  of  blue;  yet  they  are,  perhaps, 
beyond  all  others  the  favorite  clouds  of  the 
Dutch  masters. 

The  originality  and  vigor  of  separate  concep- 
tion in  cloud  forms,  give  to  the  scenery  of  the 
sky  a  force  and  variety  no  less  delightful  than 
that  of  the  changes  of  mountain  outline  in  a  hill 
district  of  great  elevation;  and  there  is  added 
to  this  a  spirit-like  feeling,  a  capricious,  mock- 
ing imagery  of  passion  and  life,  totally  different 
from  any  effects  of  inanimate  form  that  the 
earth  can  show. 


68  NA  l^URE. 

The  minor  contours,  out  of  which  the  larger 
outlines  are  composed,  are  indeed  beautifully 
curvilinear;  but  they  are  never  monotonous  in 
their  curves.  First  comes  a  concave  line,  then  a 
convex  one,  then  an  angular  jag,  breaking  off  into 
spray,  then  a  downright  straight  line,  then  a  curve 
again,  then  a  deep  gap,  and  a  place  where  all  is 
lost  and  melted  away,  and  so  on;  displaying  in 
every  inch  of  the  form  renewed  and  ceaseless  in- 
vention, setting  off  grace  with  rigidity,  and  reliev- 
ing flexibility  with  force,  in  a  manner  scarcely 
less  admirable,  and  far  more  changeful  than 
even  in  the  muscular  forms  of  the  human  frame. 
Nay,  such  is  the  exquisite  composition  of  all 
this,  that  you  may  take  any  single  fragment  of 
any  cloud  in  the  sky,  and  you  will  find  it  put 
together  as  if  there  had  been  a  year's  thought 
over  the  plan  of  it,  arranged  with  the  most  stud- 
ied inequality — with  the  most  delicate  symme- 
try— with  the  most  elaborate  contrast,  a  picture 
in  itself.  You  may  try  every  other  piece  of 
cloud  in  the  heaven,  and  you  will  find  them 
every  one  as  perfect,  and  yet  not  one  in  the 
least  like  another. 

When  rain  falls  on  a  mountain  composed 
chiefly  of  barren  rocks,  their  surfaces,  being  vio- 
lently heated  by  the  sun,  whose  most  intense 
warmth  always  precedes  rain,  occasion  sudden 
and  violent  evaporation,  actually  converting  the 


THE    CENTRAL    CLOUD  REGION.         69 

first  shower  into  steam.  Consequently,  upon 
all  such  hills,  on  the  commencement  of  rain, 
white  volumes  of  vapor  are  instantaneously  and 
universally  formed,  which  rise,  are  absorbed  by 
the  atmosphere,  and  again  descend  in  rain,  to 
rise  in  fresh  volumes  until  the  surfaces  of  the 
hills  are  cooled.  Where  there  is  grass  or  vege- 
tation, this  effect  is  diminished;  where  there  is 
foliage  it  scarcely  takes  place  at  all.  Now  this 
effect  has  evidently  been  especially  chosen  by 
Turner  for  Loch  Coriskin,  not  only  because  it 
enabled  him  to  relieve  its  jagged  forms  with  veil- 
ing vapor,  but  to  tell  the  tale  which  no  pencil- 
ling could,  the  story  of  its  utter  absolute  bar- 
renness of  unlichened,  dead,  desolate  rock: — 

i(The  wildest  glen,  but  this,  can  show 
Some  touch  of  nature's  genial  glow, 
On  high  Benmore  green  mosses  grow 
And  heath-bells  bud  in  deep  Glencoe. 
And  copse  on  Cruchan  Ben; 
But  here,  above,  around,  below, 
On  mountain,  or  in  glen, 
Nor  tree,  nor  plant,  nor  shrub,  nor  flower. 
Nor  ought  of  vegetative  power, 
The  wearied  eye  may  ken  ; 
But  all  its  rocks  at  random  thrown, 
Black  waves,  bare  crags,  and  banks  of  stone. " 
Lord  of  the  Isles,  Canto  III, 

"  Be  as  a  Presence  or  a  motion — one 
Among  the  many  there — while  the  mists 


70  NA  TURE. 

Flying,  and  rainy  vapors,  call  out  shapes 
And  phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth, 
As  fast  as  a  musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument." — 

Stand  upon  the  peak  of  some  isolated  moun- 
tain at  daybreak,  when  the  night-mists  first  rise 
from  off  the  plains,  and  watch  their  white  and 
lake-like  fields  as  they  float  in  level  bays  and 
winding  gulphs  about  the  islanded  summits  of 
the  lower  hills,  untouched  yet  by  more  than 
dawn,  colder  and  more  quiet  than  a  windless 
sea  under  the  moon  of  midnight.  Watch  when 
the  first  sunbeam  is  sent  upon  the  silver  chan- 
nels, how  the  foam  of  their  undulating  surface 
parts  and  passes  away;  and  down  under  their 
depths  the  glittering  city  and  green  pasture  lie 
like  Atlantis,  between  the  white  paths  of  wind- 
ing rivers;  the  flakes  of  light  falling  every  mo- 
ment faster  and  broader  among  the  starry  spires, 
as  the  wreathed  surges  break  and  vanish  above 
them,  and  the  confused  crests  and  ridges  of  the 
dark  hills  shorten  their  gray  shadows  upon  the 
plain.  Wait  a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  see 
those  scattered  mists  rallying  in  the  ravines  and 
floating  up  towards  you,  along  the  winding  val- 
leys, till  they  couch  in  quiet  masses,  iridescent 
with  the  morning  light,  upon  the  broad  breasts 
of  the  higher  hills,  whose  leagues  of  massy  un- 
dulation will  melt  back  and  back  into  that  robe 


THE    CENTRAL    CLOUD   REGLOX.         7 1 

of  material  light,  until  they  fade  away,  lost  in 
its  lustre,  to  appear  again  above,  in  the  serene 
heaven,  like  a  wild,  bright,  impossible  dream, 
foundationless  and  inaccessible,  their  very  bases 
vanishing  in  the  unsubstantial  and  mocking  blue 
of  the  deep  lake  below.  Wait  yet  a  little  longer, 
and  you  shall  see  those  mists  gather  themselves 
into  white  towers,  and  stand  like  fortresses  along 
the  promontories,  massy  and  motionless,  only 
piling  with  every  instant  higher  and  higher  into 
the  sky,  and  casting  longer  shadows  athwart  the 
rocks;  and  out  of  the  pale  blue  of  the  horizon 
you  will  see  forming  and  advancing  a  troop  of 
narrow,  dark  pointed  vapors,  which  will  cover 
the  sky,  inch  by  inch,  with  their  gray  network, 
and  take  the  light  off  the  landscape  with  an 
eclipse  which  will  stop  the  singing  of  the  birds 
and  the  motion  of  the  leaves  together;  and 
then  you  will  see  horizontal  bars  of  black  shad- 
ow forming  under  them,  and  lurid  wreaths  cre- 
ate themselves,  you  know  not  how,  along  the 
shoulders  of  the  hills;  you  never  see  them  form, 
but  when  you  look  back  to  a  place  which  was 
clear  an  instant  ago,  there  is  a  cloud  on  it,  hang- 
ing by  the  precipices,  as  a  hawk  pauses  over  his 
prey.  And  then  you  will  hear  the  sudden  rush 
of  the  awakened  wind,  and  you  will  see  those 
watch-towers  of  vapor  swept  away  from  their 
foundations,  and  waving  curtains  of  opaque  rain 


72  NA  TURE. 

let  down  to  the  valleys,  swinging  from  the  bur- 
dened clouds  in  black,  bending  fringes,  or  pac- 
ing in  pale  columns  along  the  lake  level,  grazing 
its  surface  into  foam  as  they  go.  And  then,  as 
the  sun  sinks,  you  shall  see  the  storm  drift  for 
an  instant  from  off  the  hills,  leaving  their  broad 
sides  smoking,  and  loaded  yet  with  snow-white, 
torn,  steam-like  rags  of  capricious  vapor,  now 
gone,  now  gathered  again;  while  the  smoulder- 
ing sun,  seeming  not  far  away,  but  burning  like 
a  red-hot  ball  beside  you,  and  as  if  you  could 
reach  it,  plunges  through  the  rushing  wind  and 
rolling  cloud  with  headlong  fall,  as  if  it  meant 
to  rise  no  more,  dyeing  all  the  air  about  it  with 
blood.  And  then  you  shall  hear  the  fainting 
tempest  die  in  the  hollow  of  the  night,  and  you 
shall  see  a  green  halo  kindling  on  the  summit 
of  the  eastern  hills,  brighter — brighter  yet,  till 
the  large  white  circle  of  the  slow  moon  is  lifted 
up  among  the  barred  clouds,  step  by  step,  line 
by  line;  star  after  star  she  quenches  with  her 
kindling  light,  setting  in  their  stead  an  army  of 
pale,  penetrable,  fleecy  wreaths  in  the  heaven, 
to  give  light  upon  the  earth,  which  move  to- 
gether, hand  in  hand,  company  by  company, 
troop  by  troop,  so  measured  in  their  [  unity  of 
motion,  that  the  whole  heaven  seems  to  roll 
with  them,  and  the  earth  to  reel  under  them. 
And  then  wait  yet  for  one  hour,  until  the  east 


THE    CENTRAL    CLOUD  REGION.         73 

again  becomes  purple,  and  the  heaving  moun- 
tains, rolling  against  it  in  darkness,  like  waves 
of  a  wild  sea,  are  drowned  one  by  one  in  the 
glory  of  its  burning;  watch  the  white  glaciers 
blaze  in  their  winding  paths  about  the  moun- 
tains, like  mighty  serpents,  with  scales  of  fire; 
watch  the  columnar  peaks  of  solitary  snow, 
kindling  downwards,  chasm  by  chasm,  each  in 
itself  a  new  morning;  their  long  avalanches  cast 
down  in  keen  streams  brighter  than  the  light- 
ning, sending  each  his  tribute  of  driven  snow, 
like  altar-smoke,  up  to  the  heaven;  the  rose- 
light  of  their  silent  domes  flushing  that  heaven 
about  them  and  above  them,  piercing  with  purer 
light  through  its  purple  lines  of  lifted  cloud, 
casting  a  new  glory  on  every  wreath  as  it  passes 
by,  until  the  whole  heaven — one  scarlet  canopy 
— is  interwoven  with  a  roof  of  waving  flame,  and 
tossing,  vault  beyond  vault,  as  with  the  drifted 
wings  of  many  companies  of  angels;  and  then, 
when  you  can  look  no  more  for  gladness,  and 
when  you  are  bowed  down  with  fear  and  love 
of  the  Maker  and  Doer  of  this,  tell  me  who  has 
best  delivered  this  His  message  unto  men! 


74  NA  TV  RE. 


RAIN    CLOUDS. 

The  clouds  which  I  wish  to  consider  as  char- 
acteristic of  the  lower,  or  rainy  region,  differ  not 
so  much  in  their  real  nature  from  those  of  the 
central  and  uppermost  regions,  as  in  appearance 
owing  to  their  greater  nearness.  For  the  cen- 
tral clouds,  and  perhaps  even  the  high  cirri, 
deposit  moisture,  if  not  distinctly  rain,  as  is 
sufficiently  proved  by  the  existence  of  snow  on 
the  highest  peaks  of  the  Himaleh;  and  when, 
on  any  such  mountains,  we  are  brought  into 
close  contact  with  the  central  clouds,  we  find 
them  little  differing  from  the  ordinary  rain-cloud 
of  the  plains,  except  by  being  slightly  less  dense 
and  dark.  But  the  apparent  differences,  depen- 
dent on  proximity  are,  most  marked  and  impor- 
tant. 

In  the  first  place,  the  clouds  of  the  central 
region  have,  as  has  been  before  observed,  pure 
and  aerial  grays  for  their  dark  sides,  owing  to 
their  necessary  distance  from  the  observer;  and 
as  this  distance  permits  a  multitude  of  local 
phenomena  capable  of  influencing  color,  such 
as  accidental  sunbeams,  refractions,  transpar- 
encies, or  local  mists  and  showers,  to  be  col- 
lected into  a  space  apparently  small,  the  colors 
of  these  clouds  are  always  changeful  and  palpi- 


RAIN   CLOUDS.'  75 

tating;  and  whatever  degree  of  gray  or  of  gloom 
may  be  mixed  with  them  is  invariably  pure  and 
aerial.  But  the  nearness  of  the  rain-cloud  ren- 
dering it  impossible  for  a  number  of  phenomena 
to  be  at  once  visible,  makes  its  hue  of  gray 
monotonous,  and  (by  losing  the  blue  of  distance) 
warm  and  brown  compared  to  that  of  the  upper 
clouds.  This  is  especially  remarkable  on  any 
part  of  it  which  may  happen  to  be  illumined, 
which  is  of  a  brown,  bricky,  ochreous  tone, 
never  bright,  always  coming  in  dark  outline  on 
the  lights  of  the  central  clouds.  But  it  is  sel- 
dom that  this  takes  place,  and  when  it  docs, 
never  over  large  spaces,  little  being  usually  seen 
of  the  rain-cloud  but  its  under  and  dark  side. 
This,  when  the  cloud  above  is  dense,  becomes 
of  an  inky  and  cold  gray,  and  sulphureous  and 
lurid  if  there  be  thunder  in  the  air. 

To  the  region  of  the  rain-cloud  belong  also 
all  those  phenomena  of  drifted  smoke,  heat- 
haze,  local  mists  in  the  morning  or  evening;  in 
valleys,  or  over  water,  mirage,  white  steaming 
vapor  rising  in  evaporation  from  moist  and  open 
surfaces,  and  every  thing  which  visibly  affects 
the  condition  of  the  atmosphere  without  actu- 
ally assuming  the  form  of  cloud.  These  phe- 
nomena are  as  perpetual  in  all  countries  as  they 
are  beautiful,  and  afford  by  far  the  most  effec- 
tive and  valuable  means  which  the  painter  pos- 


y6  NA  TURE. 

sesses,  for  modification  of  the  forms  of  fixed 
objects.  The  upper  clouds  are  distinct  and 
comparatively  opaque,  they  do  not  modify,  but 
conceal  ;  but  through  the  rain-cloud,  and  its 
accessory  phenomena,  all  that  is  beautiful  may 
be  made  manifest,  and  all  that  is  hurtful  con- 
cealed ;  what  is  paltry  may  be  made  to  look 
vast,  and  what  is  ponderous,  aerial  ;  mystery 
may  be  obtained  without  obscurity,  and  decora- 
tion without  disguise.  And,  accordingly,  nature 
herself  uses  it  constantly,  as  one  of  her  chief 
means  of  most  perfect  effect;  not  in  one  coun- 
try, nor  another,  but  everywhere — everywhere, 
at  least,  where  there  is  anything  worth  calling 
landscape.  I  cannot  answer  for  the  desert  of 
the  Sahara,  but  I  know  that  there  can  be  no 
greater  mistake,  than  supposing  that  delicate 
and  variable  effects  of  mist  and  rain-cloud  are 
peculiar  to  northern  climates.  I  have  never 
seen  in  any  place  or  country  effects  of  mist 
more  perfect  than  in  the  Campagna  of  Rome, 
and  among  the  hills  of  Sorrento.  We  never  can 
see  the  azure  so  intense  as  when  the  greater 
part  of  this  vapor  has  just  fallen  in  rain.  Then, 
and  then  only,  pure  blue  sky  becomes  visible  in 
the  first  openings,  distinguished  especially  by 
the  manner  in  which  the  clouds  melt  into  it; 
their  edges  passing  off  in  faint  white  threads 
and  fringes,  through  which  the  blue  shines  more 


RAIN  CLOUDS.  TJ 

and  more  intensely,  till  the  last  trace  of  vapor 
is  lost  in  its  perfect  color.  It  is  only  the  upper 
white  clouds,  however,  which  do  this,  or  the 
last  fragments  of  rain-clouds,  becoming  white 
as  they  disappear,  so  that  the  blue  is  never 
corrupted  by  the  cloud,  but  only  paled  and 
broken  with  pure  white,  the  purest  white  which 
the  sky  ever  shows.  Thus  we  have  a  melting 
and  palpitating  color,  never  the  same  for  two 
inches  together,  deepening  and  broadening  here 
and  there  into  intensity  of  perfect  azure,  then 
drifted  and  dying  away  through  every  tone  of 
pure  pale  sky,  into  the  snow  white  of  the  filmy 
cloud.  Over  this  roll  the  determined  edges  of 
the  rain-clouds,  throwing  it  all  far  [back,  as  a 
retired  scene,  into  the  upper  sky. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  slowly  descending  the 
first  turn  after  you  leave  Albano.  It  had  been 
wild  weather  when  I  left  Rome,  and  all  across 
the  Campagna  the  clouds  were  sweeping  in  sul- 
phurous blue,  with  a  clap  of  thunder  or  two, 
and  breaking  gleams  of  sun  along  the  Claudian 
aqueduct,  lighting  up  the  infinity  of  its  arches 
like  the  bridge  of  chaos.  But  as  I  climbed  the 
long  slope  of  the  Alban  mount,  the  storm  swept 
finally  to  the  north,  and  the  noble  outlines  of 
the  domes  of  Albano,  and  graceful  darkness  of 
its  ilex  groves,  rose  against  pure  streaks  of  al- 
ternate blue  and  amber;  the  upper  sky  gradu- 


JS  NA  TURE. 

ally  flashing  through  the  last  fragments  cf  rain- 
cloud  in  deep  palpitating  azure,  half  ether  and 
half  dew.  The  noon-day  sun  came  slanting 
down  the  rocky  slopes  of  La  Riccia,  and  its 
masses  of  entangled  and  tall  foliage,  whose 
autumnal  tints  were  mixed  with  the  wet  verdure 
of  a  thousand  evergreens,  were  penetrated  with 
it  as  with  rain.  I  cannot  call  it  color,  it  was 
conflagration;  purple,  and  crimson,  and  scarlet, 
like  the  curtains  of  God's  tabernacle.  The  re- 
joicing trees  sank  into  the  valley  in  showers  of 
light,  every  separate  leaf  quivering  with  buoyant 
and  burning  life;  each,  as  it  turned  to  reflect  or 
to  transmit  the  sunbeam,  first  a  torch  and  then 
an  emerald.  Far  up  into  the  recesses  of  the 
valley,  the  green  vistas,  arched  like  the  hollows 
of  mighty  waves  of  some  crystalline  sea,  with  the 
arbutus  flowers  clasped  along  their  flanks  for 
foam,  and  silver  flakes  of  orange-flower-like 
spray  tossed  into  the  air,  around  them,  breaking 
over  the  gray  walls  of  rock,  into  a  thousand  sep- 
arate stars,  fading  and  kindling  alternately  as 
the  weak  wind  lifted  and  let  them  fall.  Every 
glade  of  grass  burned  like  the  golden  floor  of 
heaven,  opening  in  sudden  gleams  as  the  foliage' 
broke  and  closed  above  it,  as  sheet  lightning 
opens  in  a  cloud  at  sunset.  The  motionless 
masses  of  dark  rock — dark,  though  flushed  with 
scarlet   lichen  —  casting    their    quiet    shadows 


RAIN   CLOUDS.  79 

across  its  restless  radiance,  the  fountain  under- 
neath them  filling  its  marble  hollow  with  blue 
mist  and  fitful  sound  and  over  all  the  multitu- 
dinous bars  of  umber  and  rose,  the  sacred  clouds 
that  have  no  darkness,  and  only  exist  to  illu- 
mine, were  seen  in  fathomless  intervals  between 
the  solemn  and  orbed  repose  of  the  stone  pines, 
passing  to  lose  themselves  in  the  last  white  blind- 
ing lustre  of  the  measureless  line,  where  the 
Campagna  melted  into  the  blaze  of  the  sea. 

The  woods  and  waters  which  were  peopled  by 
the  Greek  with  typical  life  were  not  different 
from  those  which  now  wave  and  murmur  by  the 
ruins  of  his  shrines.  With  their  visible  and 
actual  forms  was  his  imagination  filled,  and  the 
beauty  of  its  incarnate  creatures  can  only  be 
understood  among  the  pure  realities  which  origi- 
nally modelled  their  conception.  If  divinity  be 
stamped  upon  the  features,  or  apparent  in  the 
form  of  the  spiritual  creature,  the  mind  will  not 
be  shocked  by  its  appearing  to  ride  upon  the 
whirlwind,  and  trample  on  the  storm ;  but  if 
mortality,  no  violation  of  the  characters  of  earth 
will  forge  one  single  link  to  bind  it  to  heaven. 

Though  Nature  is  constantly  beautiful,  she 
does  not  exhibit  her  highest  powers  of  beauty 
constantly,  for  then  they  would  satiate  us  and 


80  NA  TURE. 

pall  upon  the  senses.  It  is  necessary  to  their 
appreciation  that  they  should  be  rarely  shown. 
Her  finest  touches  are  things  which  must  be 
watched  for;  her  most  perfect  passages  of  beauty 
are  the  most  evanescent.  She  is  constantly  do- 
ing something  beautiful  for  us,  but  it  is  some- 
thing which  she  has  not  done  before  and  will 
not  do  again; — some  exhibition  of  her  general 
powers  in  particular  circumstances,  which  if  we 
do  not  catch  at  the  instant  it  is  passing,  will  not 
be  repeated  for  us.  Now,  they  are  these  evan- 
escent passages  of  perfected  beauty,  these  per- 
petually varied  examples  of  utmost  power,  which 
the  artist  ought  to  seek  for  and  arrest. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  more  impressive  scene  on 
earth  than  the  solitary  extent  of  the  Campagna 
of  Rome,  under  evening  light.  Let  the  reader 
imagine  himself,  for  a  moment,  withdrawn  from 
the  sounds  and  motions  of  the  living  world,  and 
sent  forth  alone  into  this  wild  and  wasted  plain. 
The  earth  yields  and  crumbles  beneath  his  foot, 
tread  he  never  so  lightly,  for  its  substance  is 
white,  hollow,  and  carious,  like  the  dusty  wreck 
of  the  bones  of  men.  The  long,  knotted  grass 
waves  and  tosses  feebly  in  the  evening  wind, 
and  the  shadows  of  its  motion  shake  feverishly 
along  the  banks  of  ruin  that  lift  themselves  to 
the    sunlight.     Hillocks    of    mouldering    earth 


WA  TER.  8 1 

heave  around  him,  as  if  the  dead  beneath  were 
struggling  in  their  sleep;  scattered  blocks  of 
black  stone,  fpur  square,  remnants  of  mighty 
edifices,  not  one  left  upon  another,  lie  upon  them, 
to  keep  them  down.  A  dull  purple,  poisonous 
haze  stretches  level  along  the  desert,  veiling  its 
spectral  wrecks  of  massy  ruins,  on  whose  rents 
the  red  light  rests,  like  dying  fire  on  defiled  al- 
tars. The  blue  ridge  of  the  Alban  Mount,  lifts 
itself  against  a  solemn  space  of  green,  clear, 
quiet  sky.  Watch-towers  of  dark  clouds  stand 
steadfastly  along  the  promontories  of  the  Apen- 
nines. From  the  plain  to  the  mountains,  the 
shattered  aqueducts,  pier  beyond  pier,  melt  into 
the  darkness,  like  shadowy  and  countless  troops 
of  funeral  mourners  passing  from  a  nation's 
grave. 


WATER. 


Of  all  inorganic  substances,  acting  in  their 
own  proper  nature,  and  without  assistance  or 
combination,  water  is  the  most  wonderful.  If 
we  think  of  it  as  the  source  of  all  the  changeful- 
ness  and  beauty  which  we  have  seen  in  clouds; 
then  as  the  instrument  by  which  the  earth  we 
have  contemplated  was  modelled  into  symmetry, 
and  its  crags  chiselled  into  grace;  then  as,  in  the 


82  NA  TURE. 

form  of  snow,  it  robes  the  mountains  it  has  made, 
with  that  transcendent  light  which  we  could 
not  have  conceived  if  we  had  not  seen;  then  as 
it  exists  in  the  foam  of  the  torrent — in  the  iris 
which  spans  it,  in  the  morning  mist  which  rises 
from  it,  in  the  deep  crystalline  pools  which 
mirror  its  hanging  shore,  in  the  broad  lake  and 
glancing  river;  finally,  in  that  which  is  to  all 
human  minds  the  best  emblem  of  unwearied,  un- 
conquerable power,  the  wild,  various,  fantastic, 
tameless  unity  of  the  sea;  what  shall  we  com- 
pare to  this  mighty,  this  universal  element,  for 
glory  and  for  beauty  ?  or  how  shall  we  follow  its 
eternal  changefulness  of  feeling?  It  is  like  try- 
ing to  paint  a  soul. 

Few  people,  comparatively,  have  ever  seen  the 
effect  on  the  sea  of  a  powerful  gale  continued 
without  intermission  for  three  or  four  days  and 
nights,  and  to  those  who  have  not  I  believe  it 
must  be  unimaginable,  not  from  the  mere  force 
or  size  of  surge,  but  from  the  complete  annihi- 
lation of  the  limit  between  sea  and  air.  The 
water  from  its  prolonged  agitation  is  beaten,  not 
into  mere  creaming  foam,  but  into  masses  of  ac- 
cumulated  yeast,*  which    hangs   in    ropes    and 

*  The  "  yesty  waves  "  of  Shakspeare  have  made  the 
likeness  familiar,  and  probably  most  readers  take  the  ex- 
pression as  merely  equivalent  to  "foamy;"  but  Shak- 
speare knew  better.     Sea-foam  does  not,  under  ordinary 


IV  A  TER.  83 

wreaths  from  wave  to  wave,  and  where  one  curls 
over  to  break,  form  a  festoon  like  a  drapery, 
from  its  edge; .these  are  taken  up  by  the  wind, 

circumstances,  last  a  moment  after  it  is  formed,  but  dis- 
appears, as  above  described,  in  a  mere  white  film.  But 
the  foam  of  a  prolonged  tempest  is  altogether  different ; 
it  is  "  whipped  "  foam, — thick,  permanent,  and,  in  a  foul 
or  discolored  sea,  very  ugly,  especially  in  the  way  it  hangs 
about  the  tops  of  the  waves,  and  gathers  into  clotted  con- 
cretions before  the  driving  wind.  The  sea  looks  truly 
working  or  fermenting.  The  following  passage  from 
Fenimore  Cooper  is  an  interesting  confirmation  of  the 
rest  of  the  above  description,  which  may  be  depended 
upon  as  entirely  free  from  exaggeration: — "  For  the  first 
time  I  now  witnessed  a  tempest  at  sea.  Gales,  and  pretty 
hard  ones,  I  had  often  seen,  but  the  force  of  the  wind  on 
this  occasion  as  much  exceeded  that  in  ordinary  gales  of 
wind,  as  the  force  of  these  had  exceeded  that  of  a  whole- 
sail  breeze.  The  seas  seemed  crushed;  the  pressure  of 
the  swooping  atmosphere,  as  the  currents  of  the  air  went 
howling  over  the  surface  of  the  ocean,  fairly  preventing 
them  from  rising;  or  where  a  mound  of  water  did  appear, 
it  was  scooped  up  and  borne  off  in  spray,  as  the  axe  dubs 
inequalities  from  the  log.  When  the  day  returned,  a 
species  of  lurid,  sombre  light  was  diffused  over  the  watery 
waste,  though  nothing  was  visible  but  the  ocean  and  the 
ship.  Even  the  sea  birds  seemed  to  have  taken  refuge  in 
the  caverns  of  the  adjacent  coast,  none  reappearing  with 
the  dawn.  The  air  was  full  of  spray,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  the  eye  could  penetrate  as  far  into  the  humid 
atmosphere  as  half  a  mile."  Half  a  mile  is  an  over-esti- 
mate in  coast. 


84  NA  TUBE. 

not  in  dissipating  dust,  but  bodily,  in  writhing, 
hanging,  coiling  masses,  which  make  the  air 
white  and  thick  as  with  snow,  only  the  flakes 
are  a  foot  or  two  long  each;  the  surges  them- 
selves are  full  of  foam  in  their  very  bodies,  un- 
derneath, making  them  white  all  through,  as  the 
water  is  under  a  great  cataract;  and  their  masses, 
being  thus  half  water  and  half  air,  are  torn  to 
pieces  by  the  wind  whenever  they  rise,  and  car- 
ried away  in  roaring  smoke,  which  chokes  and 
strangles  like  actual  water.  Add  to  this,  that 
when  the  air  has  been  exhausted  of  its  mois- 
ture by  long  rain,  the  spray  of  the  sea  is  caught 
by  it  and  covers  its  surface  not  merely  with  the 
smoke  of  finely  divided  water,  but  with  boiling 
mist;  imagine  also  the  low  rain-clouds  brought 
down  to  the  very  level  of  the  sea,  as  I  have 
often  seen  them,  whirling  and  flying  in  rags  and 
fragments  from  wave  to  wave;  and  finally,  con- 
ceive the  surges  themselves  in  their  utmost  pitch 
of  power,  velocity,  vastness,  and  madness,  lilt- 
ing themselves  in  precipices  and  peaks,  furrowed 
with  their  whirl  of  ascent,  through  all  this  chaos, 
and  you  will  understand  that  there  is  indeed  no 
distinction  left  between  the  sea  and  air;  that  no 
object,  nor  horizon,  nor  any  landmark  or  natural 
evidence  of  position  is  left;  that  the  heaven  is  all 
spray,  and  the  ocean  all  cloud,  and  that  you  can 
•.cc  no  farther  in   an)-  direction   than  you   could 


WATER.  85 

see  through  a  cataract.  Few  people  have  had 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  sea  at  such  a  time, 
and  when  theyJhave,  cannot  face  it.  To  hold 
by  a  mast  or  a  rock,  and  watch  it,  is  a  prolonged 
endurance  of  drowning  which  few  people  have 
courage  to  go  through.  To  those  who  have,  it 
is  one  of  the  noblest  lessons  of  nature. 

All  rivers,  small  or  large,  agree  in  one  charac- 
ter; they  like  to  lean  a  little  on  one  side;  they 
cannot  bear  to  have  their  channels  deepest  in 
the  middle,  but  will  always,  if  they  can,  have  one 
bank  to  sun  themselves  upon,  and  another  to 
get  cool  under;  one  shingly  shore  to  play  over, 
where  they  may  be  shallow,  and  foolish,  and 
childlike;  and  another  steep  shore,  under  which 
they  can  pause  and  purify  themselves,  and  get 
their  strength  of  waves  fully  together  for  due 
occasions.  Rivers  in  this  way  are  just  like  wise 
men,  who  keep  one  side  of  their  life  for  play, 
and  another  for  work;  and  can  be  brilliant,  and 
chattering,  and  transparent  when  they  are  at 
ease,  and  yet  take  deep  counsel  on  the  other  side 
when  they  set  themselves  to  the  main  purpose. 
And  rivers  are  just  in  this  v/ay  divided,  also, 
like  wicked  and  good  men;  the  good  rivers  have 
serviceable  deep  places  all  along  their  banks 
that  ships  can  sail  in,  but  the  wicked  rivers  go 
scoopingly,  irregularly,  under  their  banks  until 
they  get  full  of  strangling  eddies,  which  no  boat 


86  NA  TURE. 

can  row  over  without  being  twisted  against  the 
rocks,  and  pools  like  wells  which  no  one  can  get 
out  of  but  the  water-kelpie  that  lives  at  the  bot- 
tom; but,  wicked  or  good,  the  rivers  all  agree  in 
having  two  sides. 

Stand  for  half  an  hour  beside  the  fall  of 
Schaffhausen,  on  the  north  side  where  the  rap- 
ids are  long,  and  watch  how  the  vault  of  water 
first  bends,  unbroken,  in  pure,  polished  velocity, 
over  the  arching  rocks  at  the  brow  of  the  cata- 
act,  covering  them  with  a  dome  of  crystal  twenty 
feet  thick — so  swift  that  its  motion  is  unseen 
except  when  a  foam  globe  from  above  darts  over 
it  like  a  falling  star;  and  how  the  trees  are 
lighted  above  it  under  their  leaves,  at  the  in- 
stant that  it  breaks  into  foam;  and  how  all  the 
hollows  of  that  foam  burn  with  green  fire  like  so 
much  shattering  chrysoprase;  and  how,  ever 
and  anon,  startling  you  with  its  white  flash,  a 
jet  of  spray  leaps  hissing  out  of  the  fall  like  a 
rocket,  bursting  in  the  wind  and  driven  away  in 
dust,  filling  the  air  with  light;  and  how,  through 
the  curdling  wreaths  of  the  restless,  crashing 
abyss  below,  the  blue  of  the  water,  paled  by  the 
foam  in  its  body,  showers  purer  than  the  sky 
through  white  rain-cloud;  while  the  shuddering 
iris  stoops  in  tremulous  stillness  over  all,  fading 
and    flushing   alternately    through   the  choking 


WA  TER.  87 

spray  and  shattered  sunshine,  hiding  itself  at 
last  among  the  thick  golden  leaves  which  toss 
to  and  fro  in  sympathy  with  the  wild  water; 
their  dripping  masses  lifted  at  intervals,  like 
sheaves  of  loaded  corn,  by  some  stronger  gush 
from  the  cataract,  and  bowed  again  upon  the 
mossy  rocks  as  its  roar  dies  away;  the  dew  gush- 
ing from  their  thick  branches  through  drooping 
clusters  of  emerald  herbage,  and  sparkling  in 
white  threads  along  the  dark  rocks  of  the  shore, 
feeding  the  lichens  which  chase  and  checker 
them  with  purple  and  silver.  There  is  hardly  a 
road-side  pond  or  pool  which  has  not  as  much 
landscape  in  it  as  above  it.  It  is  not  the  brown, 
muddy,  dull  thing  we  suppose  it  to  be;  it  has  a 
heart  like  ourselves,  and  in  the  bottom  of  that 
there  are  the  boughs  of  the  tall  trees,  and  the 
blades  of  the  shaking  grass,  and  all  manner  of 
hues,  of  variable,  pleasant  light  out  of  the  sky; 
nay,  the  ugly  gutter,  that  stagnates  over  the 
drain  bars,  in  the  heart  of  the  foul  city,  is  not 
altogether  base;  down  in  that,  if  you  will  look 
deep  enough,  you  may  see  the  dark,  serious 
blue  of  far-off  sky,  and  the  passing  of  pure 
clouds.  It  is  at  your  own  will  that  you  see  in 
that  despised  stream,  either  the  refuse  of  the 
street,  or  the  image  of  the  sky — so  it  is  with  al- 
most all  other  things  that  we  unkindly  despise. 
When  water,  not  in  very  great  body,  runs  in  a 


88  NA  TURE. 

rocky  bed  much  interrupted  by  hollows,  so  that 
it  can  rest  every  now  and  then  in  a  pool  as  it 
goes  along,  it  does  not  acquire  a  continuous  velo- 
-  Lty  of  motion.  It  pauses  after  every  leap,  and 
curdles  about,  and  rests  a  little,  and  then  goes 
on  again;  and  if  in  this  comparatively  tranquil 
and  rational  state  of  mind  it  meets  with  an  ob- 
stacle, as  a  rock  or  stone,  it  parts  on  each  side 
of  it  with  a  little  bubbling  foam,  and  goes  round; 
if  it  come  to  a  step  in  its  bed,  it  leaps  it  lightly, 
and  then  after  a  little  plashing  at  the  bottom, 
stops  again  to  take  breath.  But  if  its  bed  be  on 
a  continuous  slope,  not  much  interrupted  by 
hollows,  so  that  it  cannot  rest,  or  if  its  own  mass 
be  so  increased  by  flood  that  its  usual  resting- 
places  are  not  sufficient  for  it,  but  that  it  is  per- 
petually pushed  out  of  them  by  the  following 
current,  before  it  has  come  to  tranquillise  itself, 
it  of  course  gains  velocity  with  every  yard  that 
it  runs;  the  impetus  got  at  one  leap  is  carried 
to  the  credit  of  the  next,  until  the  whole  stream 
becomes  one  mass  of  unchecked,  accelerating 
motion.  Now  when  water  in  this  state  comes 
to  an  obstacle,  it  does  not  part  at  it,  but  clears 
it  like  a  race-horse;  and  when  it  comes  to  a  hol- 
low, it  does  not  fill  it  up  and  run  out  leisurely 
at  the  other  side,  but  it  rushes  down  into  it  and 
comes  up  again  on  the  other  side,  as  a  ship  into 
the  hollow  of  the  sea.     1  [ence  the  whole  appear- 


WA  TER.  89 

ance  of  the  bed  of  the  stream  is  changed,  and 
all  the  lines  of  che  water  altered  in  their  nature. 
The  quiet  stream  is  a  succession  of  leaps  and 
pools  ;  the  leaps  are  light  and  springy,  and  para- 
bolic, and  make  a  great  deal  of  splashing  when 
they  tumble  into  the  pool;  then  we  have  a  space 
of  quiet  curdling  water,  and  another  similar  leap 
below.  But  the  stream  when  it  has  gained  an 
impetus  takes  the  shape  of  its  bed,  never  stops, 
is  equally  deep  and  equally  swift  everywhere, 
goes  down  into  every  hollow,  not  with  a  leap, 
but  with  a  swing,  not  foaming,  nor  splashing, 
but  in  the  bending  line  of  a  strong  sea-wave, 
and  comes  up  again  on  the  other  side,  over  rock 
and  ridge,  with  the  ease  of  a  bounding  leopard  ; 
if  it  meet  a  rock  three  or  four  feet  above  the 
level  of  its  bed,  it  will  neither  part  nor  foam, 
nor  express  any  concern  about  the  matter,  but 
clear  it  in  a  smooth  dome  of  water,  without  ap- 
parent exertion,  coming  down  again  as  smoothly 
on  the  other  side  ;  the  whole  surface  of  the 
surge  being  drawn  into  parallel  lines  by  its  ex- 
treme velocity,  but  foamless,  except  in  places 
where  the  form  of  the  bed  opposes  itself  at  some 
direct  angle  to  such  a  line  of  fall,  and  causes  a 
breaker  ;  so  that  the  whole  river  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  deep  and  raging  sea,  with  this  only 
difference,  that  the  torrent-waves  always  break 
backwards,  and  sea-waves  forwards.     Thus,  then, 


90  NA  TURE. 

in  [the  water  which  has  gained  an  impetus,  we 
have  the  most  exquisite  arrangements  of  curved 
lines,  perpetually  changing  from  convex  to  con- 
cave, and  vice  versd,  following  every  swell  and 
hollow  of  the  bed  with  their  modulating  grace, 
and  all  in  unison  of  motion,  presenting  perhaps 
the  most  beautiful  series  of  inorganic  forms 
which  nature  can  possibly  produce  ;  for  the  sea 
runs  too  much  into  similar  and  concave  curves 
with  sharp  edges,  but  every  motion  of  the  tor- 
rent is  united,  and  all  its  curves  are  modifica- 
tions of  beautiful  line. 

Every  fountain  and  river  from  the  inch-deep 
streamlet  that  crosses  the  village  lane  in  trem- 
bling clearness,  to  the  massy  and  silent  march  of 
the  everlasting  multitude  of  waters  in  Amazon 
or  Ganges,  owe  their  play,  and  purity,  and 
power,  to  the  ordained  elevations  of  the  earth. 
Gentle  or  steep,  extended  or  abrupt,  some  de- 
termined slope  of  the  earth's  surface  is  of  course 
necessary  before  any  wave  can  so  much  as  over- 
take one  sedge  in  its  pilgrimage  ;  and  how  sel- 
dom do  we  enough  consider,  as  we  walk  beside 
the  margins  of  our  pleasant  brooks,  how  beauti- 
ful and  wonderful  is  that  ordinance,  of  which 
every  blade  of  grass  that  waves  in  their  clear 
water  is  a  perpetual  sign  ;  that  the  dew  and  rain 
fallen    on    the    face  of  the  earth  shall  find  no 


IV A  TER.  9 1 

resting-place  ;  shall  find,  on  the  contrary,  fixed 
channels  traced  for  them,  from  the  ravines  of 
the  central  crests  down  which  they  roar  in  sud- 
den ranks  of  foam,  to  the  dark  hollows  beneath 
the  banks  of  lowland  pasture,  round  which  they 
must  circle  slowly  among  the  stems  and  beneath 
the  leaves  of  the  lilies  ;  paths  prepared  for  them, 
by  which,  at  some  appointed  rate  of  journey, 
they  must  evermore  descend,  sometimes  slow 
and  sometimes  swift,  but  never  pausing  ;  the 
daily  portion  of  the  earth  they  have  to  glide  over 
marked  for  them  at  each  successive  sunrise,  the 
place  which  has  known  them  knowing  them  no 
more,  and  the  gateways  of  guarding  mountains 
opened  for  them  in  cleft  and  chasm,  none  let- 
ting them  in  their  pilgrimage  ;  and,  from  far 
off,  the  great  heart  of  the  sea  calling  them  to 
itself  !  Deep  calleth  unto  deep.  I  know  not 
which  of  the  two  is  the  more  wonderful — that 
calm,  gradated,  invisible  slope  of  the  cham- 
paign land,  which  gives  motion  to  the  stream  ; 
or  that  passage  cloven  for  it  through  the  ranks 
of  hill,  which,  necessary  for  the  health  of  the 
land  immediately  around  them,  would  yet,  unless 
so  supernaturally  divided,  have  fatally  inter- 
cepted the  flow  of  the  waters  from  far-off  coun- 
tries. When  did  the  great  spirit  of  the  river 
first  knock  at  those  adamantine  gates  ?  When 
did  the  porter  open  to  it,  and  cast  his  keys  away 


92  NA  TURE. 

for  ever,  lapped  in  whirling  sand  ?  I  am  not 
satisfied — no  one  should  be  satisfied — with  that 
vague  answer, — the  river  cut  its  way.  Not  so. 
The  river  found  its  way. 

It  was  a  maxim  of  Raffaelle's  that  the  artist's 
object  was  to  make  things  not  as  Nature  makes 
them,  but  as  she  tvotdd  make  them  ;  as  she  ever 
tries  to  make  them,  but  never  succeeds,  though 
her  aim  may  be  deduced  from  a  comparison  of 
her  effects  ;  just  as  if  a  number  of  archers  had 
aimed  unsuccessfully  at  a  mark  upon  a  wall,  and 
this  mark  were  then  removed,  we  could  by  the 
examination  of  their  arrow-marks  point  out  the 
probable  position  of  the  spot  aimed  at,  with 
a  certainty  of  being  nearer  to  it  than  any  of 
their  shots. 

We  have  most  of  us  heard  of  original  sin,  and 
may  perhaps,  in  our  modest  moments,  conjec- 
ture that  Ave  are  not  quite  what  God,  or  Nature, 
would  have  us  to  be.  Raffaelle  had  something 
to  mend  in  humanity :  I  should  like  to  have 
seen  him  mending  a  daisy,  or  a  pease-blossom, 
ir  a  moth,  or  a  mustard-seed,  or  any  other  of 
God's  slightest  works  !  If  he  had  accomplished 
4 hat,  one  might  have  found  for  him  more  re- 
spectable employment,  to  set  the  stars  in  better 
order,  perhaps  (they  seem  grievously  scattered 
as  they  are,  and  to  be  of  all  manner  of  shapes 


IV A  TER.  93 

and  sizes,  except  the  ideal  shape,  and  the  proper 
size)  ;  or,  to  give  us  a  corrected  view  of  the  ocean. 
that  at  least  seems  a  very  irregular  and  improve- 
able  thing  :  the  very  fishermen  do  not  know  this 
day  how  far  it  will  reach,  driven  up  before  the 
west  wind.  Perhaps  some  one  else  does,  but 
that  is  not  our  business.  Let  us  go  down  and 
stand  on  the  beach  by  the  sea — the  great  irregu- 
lar sea,  and  count  whether  the  thunder  of  it  is 
not  out  of  time — one, — two: — here  comes  a 
well-formed  wave  at  last,  trembling  a  little  at 
the  top,  but  on  the  whole,  orderly.  So!  Crash 
among  the  shingle,  and  up  as  far  as  this  gray 
pebble  !  Now,  stand  by  and  watch.  Another  : 
— Ah,  careless  wave  !  why  couldn't  you  have 
kept  your  crest  on  ?  It  is  all  gone  away  into 
spray,  striking  up  against  the  cliffs  there — I 
thought  as  much — missed  the  mark  by  a  couple 
of  feet:  Another: — How  now,  impatient  one! 
couldn't  you  have  waited  till  your  friend's  reflux 
was  done  with,  instead  of  rolling  yourself  up 
with  it  in  that  unseemly  manner  ?  You  go  for 
nothing.  A  fourth,  and  a  goodly  one  at  last  ! 
What  think  we  of  yonder  slow  rise,  and  crys- 
talline hollow,  without  a  flaw  ?  Steady,  good 
wave  !  not  so  fast  !  not  so  fast  !  Where  are 
you  coming  to  ?  This  is  too  bad  ;  two  yards 
over  the  mark,  and  ever  so  much  of  you  in  our 
face  besides  ;  and  a  wave  which  we  had  some 


94  A^  TURE. 

hope  of,  behind  there,  broken  all  to  pieces  out 
at  sea,  and  laying  a  great  white  tablecloth  of 
foam  all  the  way  to  the  shore,  as  if  the  marine 
gods  were  to  dine  off  it!  Alas,  for  these  un- 
happy "arrow  shots"  of  Nature!  She  will  never 
hit  her  mark  with  those  unruly  waves  of  hers, 
nor  get  one  of  them  into  the  ideal  shape,  if  we 
Avait  for  a  thousand  years. 


MOUNTAINS. 


"  And  God  said,  Let  the  waters  which  are 
under  the  heaven  be  gathered  unto  one  place, 
and  let  the  dry  land  appear."  We  do  not,  per 
haps,  often  enough  consider  the  deep  signifi- 
cance of  this  sentence.  We  are  too  apt  to  re- 
ceive it  as  the  description  of  an  event  vaster 
only  in  its  extent,  not  in  its  nature,  than  the 
compelling  the  Red  Sea  to  draw  back  that  Is- 
rael might  pass  by.  We  imagine  the  Deity  in 
like  manner  rolling  the  waves  of  the  greater 
ocean  together  on  a  heap,  and  setting  bars  and 
doors  to  them  eternally. 

But  there  is  a  far  deeper  meaning  than  this 
in  the  solemn  words  of  Genesis,  and  in  the  cor- 
respondent verse  of  the  Psalm,  "  His  hands  pre- 
pared the  dry  land."     Up  to  that  moment  the 


MOUNTAINS.  95 

earth  had  been  void,  for  it  had  been  without 
form.  The  command  that  the  waters  should  be 
gathered  was  the  command  that  the  earth  should 
be  sculptured.  The  sea  was  not  driven  to  his 
place  in  sudden  restrained  rebellion,  but  with- 
drawn to  his  place  in  perfect  and  patient  obedi- 
ence. The  dry  land  appeared,  not  in  level  sands 
forsaken  by  the  surges,  which  those  surges  might 
again  claim  for  their  own;  but  in  range  beyond 
range  of  swelling  hill  and  iron  rock,  for  ever  to 
claim  kindred  with  the  firmament,  and  be  com- 
panioned by  the  clouds  of  heaven. 

What  space  of  time  was  in  reality  occupied  by 
the  "  day  "  of  Genesis,  is  not,  at  present,  of  any 
importance  for  us  to  consider.  By  what  fur- 
naces of  fire  the  adamant  was  melted,  and  by 
what  wheels  of  earthquake  it  was  torn,  and  by 
what  teeth  of  glacier  and  weight  of  sea-waves  it 
was  engraven  and  finished  into  its  perfect  form, 
we  may,  perhaps,  hereafter  endeavor  to  conjec- 
ture; but  here,  as  in  few  words  the  work  is 
summed  up  by  the  historian,  so  in  few  broad 
thoughts  it  should  be  comprehended  by  us;  and 
as  we  read  the  mighty  sentence,  "  Let  the  dry 
land  appear,"  we  should  try  to  follow  the  finger 
of  God,  as  it  engraved  upon  the  stone  tables  of 
the  earth  the  letters  and  the  law  of  its  everlast- 
ing form;  as  gulf  by  gulf  the  channels  of  the 
deep  were  ploughed,  and  cape  by  cape  the  lines 


96  NATURE. 

were  traced,  with  Divine  foreknowledge  of  the 
shores  that  were  to  limit  the  nations;  and  chain 
by  chain  the  mountain  walls  were  lengthened 
forth,  and  their  foundations  fastened  for  ever; 
and  the  compass  was  set  upon  the  face  of  the 
deep,  and  the  fields  and  the  highest  parts  of  the 
dust  of  the  world  were  made ;  and  the  right 
hand  of  Christ  first  strewed  the  snow  on  the 
Lebanon,  and  smoothed  the  slopes  of  Calvary. 

It  is  not  always  needful,  in  many  respects  it 
is  not  possible,  to  conjecture  the  manner  or  the 
time  in  which  this  work  was  done;  but  it  is 
deeply  necessary  for  all  men  to  consider  the 
magnificence  of  the  accomplished  purpose,  and 
the  depth  of  the  wisdom  and  love  which  are 
manifested  in  the  ordinances  of  the  hills. 

For,  observe,  in  order  to  bring  the  world  into 
the  form  which  it  now  bears,  it  was  not  mere 
sculpture  that  was  needed;  the  mountains  could 
not  stand  for  a  day  unless  they  were  formed  of 
materials  altogether  different  from  those  which 
constitute  the  lower  hills  and  the  surfaces  of 
the  valleys.  A  harder  substance  had  to  be  pre- 
pared for  every  mountain  chain,  yet  not  so  hard 
but  that  it  might  be  capable  of  crumbling  down 
into  earth  fit  to  nourish  the  Alpine  forest  and 
the  Alpine  flower;  not  so  hard  but  that,  in  the 
midst  of  the  utmost  majesty  of  its  enthroned 
strength,  there  should  be  seen  on  it  the  seal  of 


MOUNTAINS.  97 

death,  and  the  writing  of  the  same  sentence 
that  had  gone  forth  against  the  human  frame, 
"  Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  thou  shalt  re- 
turn." And  with  this  perishable  substance  the 
most  majestic  forms  were  to  be  framed  that 
were  consistent  with  the  safety  of  man;  and  the 
peak  was  to  be  lifted,  and  the  cliff  rent,  as  high 
and  as  steeply  as  possible,  in  order  yet  to  permit 
the  shepherd  to  feed  his  flocks  upon  the  slope, 
and  the  cottage  to  nestle  beneath  their  shadow. 
And  observe,  two  distinct  ends  were  to  be  ac- 
complished in  the  doing  this.  It  was,  indeed, 
absolutely  necessary  that  such  eminences  should 
be  created,  in  order  to  fit  the  earth  in  any 
wise  for  human  habitation  ;  for  without  moun- 
tains the  air  could  not  be  purified,  nor  the 
flowing  of  the  rivers  sustained,  and  the  earth 
must  have  become  for  the  most  part  desert 
plain,  or  stagnant  marsh.  But  the  feeding  of 
the  rivers  and  the  purifying  of  the  winds  are  the 
least  of  the  services  appointed  to  the  hills.  To 
fill  the  thirst  of  the  human  heart  for  the  beauty 
of  God's  working, — to  startle  its  lethargy  with 
the  deep  and  pure  agitation  of  astonishment, — 
are  their  higher  missions.  They  are  as  a  great 
and  noble  architecture ;  first  giving  shelter, 
comfort,  and  rest;  and  covered  also  with  mighty 
sculpture  and  painted  legend.  It  is  impossible 
to   examine    in    their    connected    system    the 


98  NA  TURE. 

features  of  even  the  most  ordinary  mountain 
scenery,  without  concluding  that  it  has  been 
prepared  in  order  to  unite  as  far  as  possible,  and 
in  the  closest  compass,  every  means  of  delight- 
ing and  sanctifying  the  heart  of  man.  "  As  far 
as  possible  j"  that  is,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with 
the  fulfilment  of  the  sentence  of  condemnation 
on  the  whole  earth.  Death  must  be  upon  the 
hills;  and  the  cruelty  of  the  tempest  smite  them, 
and  the  briar  and  thorn  spring  up  upon  them  ; 
but  they  so  smite,  as  to  bring  their  rocks  into 
the  fairest  forms ;  and  so  spring,  as  to  make  the 
very  desert  blossom  as  the  rose.  Even  among 
our  own  hills  of  Scotland  and  Cumberland, 
though  often  too  barren  to  be  perfectly  beauti- 
ful, and  always  too  low  to  be  perfectly  sublime, 
it  is  strange  how  many  deep  sources  of  delight 
are  gathered  into  the  compass  of  their  glens  and 
vales  ;  and  how,  down  to  the  most  secret  cluster 
of  their  far-away  flowers,  and  the  idlest  leap  of 
their  straying  streamlets,  the  whole  heart  of 
Nature  seems  thirsting  to  give,  and  still  to  give, 
shedding  forth  her  everlasting  beneficence  with 
a  profusion  so  patient,  so  passionate,  that  our 
utmost  observance  and  thankfulness  are  but,  at 
least,  neglect  of  her  nobleness,  and  apathy  to 
her  love.  But  among  the  true  mountains  of  the 
greater  orders  the  Divine  purpose  of  appeal  at 
once  to  all  the  faculties  of  the  human  spirit 


MOUNTAINS.  99 

becomes  still  more  manifest.  Inferior  hills 
ordinarily  interrupt,  in  some  degree,  the  rich- 
ness of  the  valleys  at  their  feet;  the  gray  downs 
of  southern  England,  and  treeless  coteaux  of 
central  France,  and  gray  swells  of  Scottish 
moor,  whatever  peculiar  charm  they  may  pos- 
sess in  themselves,  are  at  least  destitute  of  those 
which  belong  to  the  woods  and  fields  of  the 
lowlands.  But  the  great  mountains  lift  the  low- 
lands on  their  sides.  Let  the  reader  imagine, 
first,  the  appearance  of  the  most  varied  plain  of 
some  richly  cultivated  country;  let  him  imagine 
it  dark  with  graceful  woods,  and  soft  with 
deepest  pastures ;  let  him  fill  the  space  of  it, 
to  the  utmost  horizon,  with  innumerable  and 
changeful  incidents  of  scenery  and  life  ;  leading 
pleasant  streamlets  through  its  meadows,  strew- 
ing clusters  of  cottages  beside  their  banks,  trac- 
ing sweet  footpaths  through  its  avenues,  and 
animating  its  fields  with  happy  flocks,  and  slow 
wandering  spots  of  cattle ;  and  when  he  has 
wearied  himself  with  endless  imagining,  and  left 
no  space  without  some  loveliness  of  its  own,  let 
him  conceive  all  this  great  plain  with  its  infinite 
treasures  of  natural  beauty  and  happy  human 
life,  gathered  up  in  God's  hand  from  one  end  of 
the  horizon  to  the  other,  like  a  woven  garment; 
and  shaken  into  deep  falling  folds,  as  the  robes 
droop  from  a  king's  shoulders;  all  its  bright  rivers 


100  NATURE. 

leaping  into  cataracts  along  the  hollows  of  its 
fall,  and  all  its  forests  rearing  themselves  aslant 
against  its  slopes,  as  a  rider  rears  himself  back 
when  his  horse  plunges;  and  all  its  villages  nest- 
ling themselves  into  the  new  windings  of  its 
glens;  and  all  its  pastures  thrown  into  steep 
waves  of  greensward,  dashed  with  dew  along 
the  edges  of  their  folds,  and  sweeping  down  into 
endless  slopes,  with  a  cloud  here  and  there  lying 
quietly,  half  on  the  grass,  half  in  the  air;  and  he 
will  have  as  yet,  in  all  this  lifted  world,  only  the 
foundation  of  one  of  the  great  Alps. 

They  seem  to  have  been  built  for  the  human 
race,  as  at  once  their  schools  and  cathedrals; 
full  of  treasures  of  illuminated  manuscript  for 
the  scholar,  kindly  in  simple  lessons  to  the 
worker,  quiet  in  pale  cloisters  for  the  thinker, 
glorious  in  holiness  for  the  worshipper.  And  of 
these  great  cathedrals  of  the  earth,  with  their 
gates  of  rock,  pavements  of  cloud,  choirs  of 
stream  and  stone,  altars  of  snow,  and  vaults  of 
purple  traversed  by  the  continual  stars, — of 
these,  as  we  have  seen,  it  was  written,  nor  long 
ago,  by  one  of  the  best  of  the  poor  human  race 
for  whom  it  was  built,  wondering  in  himself  for 
whom  their  Creator  could  have  made  them,  and 
thinking  to  have  entirely  discerned  the  Divine 
intent  in  them — "  They  are  inhabited  by  the 
Beasts." 


MOUNTAINS.  101 

Mountains  are,  to  the  rest  of  the  body  of  the 
earth,  what  violent  muscular  action  is  to  the  body 
of  man.  The  muscles  and  tendons  of  its  anat- 
omy are,  in  the  mountain,  brought  out  with 
fierce  and  convulsive  energy,  full  of  expression, 
passion,  and  strength;  the  plains  and  the  lower 
hills  are  the  repose  and  the  effortless  motion  of 
the  frame,  when  its  muscles  lie  dormant  and 
concealed  beneath  the  lines  of  its  beauty,  yet 
ruling  those  lines  in  their  every  undulation. 
This,  then,  is  the  first  grand  principle  of  the 
truth  of  the  earth.  The  spirit  of  the  hills  is 
action ;  that  of  the  lowlands,  repose ;  and 
between  these  there  is  to  be  found  every  variety 
of  motion  and  of  rest;  from  the  inactive  plain, 
sleeping  like  the  firmament,  with  cities  for  stars, 
to  the  fiery  peaks,  which,  with  heaving  bosoms 
and  exulting  limbs,  with  the  clouds  drifting  like 
hair  from  their  bright  foreheads,  lift  up  their 
Titan  hands  to  Heaven,  saying,  "  I  live  forever !" 

But  there  is  this  difference  between  the  action 
of  the  earth,  and  that  of  a  living  creature,  that 
while  the  exerted  limb  marks  its  bones  and 
tendons  through  the  flesh,  the  excited  earth  casts 
off  the  flesh  altogether,  and  its  bones  come  out 
from  beneath.  Mountains  are  the  bones  of  the 
earth,  their  highest  peaks  are  invariably  those 
parts  of  its  anatomy  which  in  the  plains  lie 
buried  under  five  and  twenty  thousand  feet  of 


102  NATURE. 

solid  thickness  of  superincumbent  soil,  and  which 
spring  up  in  the  mountain  ranges  in  vast  pyra- 
mids or  wedges,  flinging  their  garment  of  earth 
away  from  them  on  each  side.  The  masses  of 
the  lower  hills  are  laid  over  and  against  their 
sides,  like  the  masses  of  lateral  masonry  against 
the  skeleton  arch  of  an  unfinished  bridge,  except 
that  they  slope  up  to  and  lean  against  the  central 
ridge:  and,  finally,  upon  the  slopes  of  these 
lower  hills  are  strewed  the  level  beds  of  sprinkled 
gravel,  sand,  and  clay,  which  form  the  extent  of 
the  champaign.  Here  then  is  another  grand 
principle  of  the  truth  of  earth,  that  the  moun- 
tains must  come  from  under  all,  and  be  the  sup- 
port of  all;  and  that  everything  else  must  belaid 
in  their  arms,  heap  above  heap,  the  plains  being 
the  uppermost. 

Snow  is  modified  by  the  under  forms  of  the 
hill  in  some  sort,  as  dress  is  by  the  anatomy  of 
the  human  frame.  And  as  no  dress  can  be  well 
laid  on  without  conceiving  the  body  beneath,  so 
no  Alp  can  be  drawn  unless  its  under  form  is 
conceived  first,  and  its  snow  laid  on  afterwards. 

Every  high  Alp  has  as  much  snow  upon  it  as 
it  can  hold  or  carry.  It  is  not,  observe,  a  mere 
coating  of  snow  of  given  depth  throughout,  but 
it  is  sno\v  loaded  on  until  the  rocks  can  hold  no 
more.  The  surplus  does  not  fall  in  the  winter, 
because,  fastened  by  continual  frost,  the  quantity 


MOUNTAINS.  103 

of  snow  which  an  Alp  can  carry  is  greater  than 
each  single  winter  can  bestow;  it  falls  in  the  first 
mild  days  of  spring  in  enormous  avalanches. 
Afterwards  the'melting  continues,  gradually  re- 
moving from  all  the  steep  rocks  the  small  quan- 
tity of  snow  which  was  all  they  could  hold,  and 
leaving  them  black  and  bare  among  the  accumu- 
lated fields  of  unknown  depth,  which  occupy  the 
capacious  valleys  and  less  inclined  superficies  of 
the  mountain. 

Hence  it  follows  that  the  deepest  snow  does 
not  take  nor  indicate  the  actual  forms  of  the 
rocks  on  which  it  lies,  but  it  hangs  from  peak  to 
peak  in  unbroken  and  sweeping  festoons,  or 
covers  whole  groups  of  peaks,  which  afford  it 
sufficient  hold,  with  vast  and  unbroken  domes: 
these  festoons  and  domes  being  guided  in  their 
curves,  and  modified  in  size,  by  the  violence  and 
prevalent  direction  of  the  winter  winds. 

It  fell  within  the  purpose  of  the  Great  Builder 
to  give,  in  the  highest  peaks  of  mountains, 
examples  of  form  more  strange  and  majestic 
than  any  which  could  be  obtained  by  structures 
so  beneficently  adapted  to  the  welfare  of  the 
human  race.  And  the  admission  of  other  modes 
of  elevation,  more  terrific  and  less  secure,  takes 
place  exactly  in  proportion  to  the  increasing 
presence  of  such  conditions  in  the  locality  as 
shall  render  it  on  other  grounds  unlikely  to  be 


104  NA  TURE. 

inhabited  or  incapable  of  being  so.  Where  the 
soil  is  rich  and  the  climate  soft,  the  hills  are  low 
and  safe;  as  the  ground  becomes  poorer  and  the 
air  keener,  they  rise  into  forms  of  more  peril  and 
pride ;  and  their  utmost  terror  is  shown  only 
where  their  fragments  fall  on  trackless  ice,  and 
the  thunder  of  their  ruin  can  be  heard  but  by 
the  ibex  and  the  eagle.  The  work  of  the  Great 
Spirit  of  nature  is  as  deep  and  unapproachable 
in  the  lowest  as  in  the  noblest  objects,  the 
Divine  mind  is  as  visible  in  its  full  energy  of 
operation  on  every  lowly  bank  and  mouldering 
stone,  as  in  the  lifting  of  the  pillars  of  heaven, 
and  settling  the  foundation  of  the  earth;  and  to 
the  rightly  perceiving  mind,  there  is  the  same 
infinity,  the  same  majesty,  the  same  power,  the 
same  unity,  and  the  same  perfection,  manifest  in 
the  casting  of  the  clay  as  in  the  scattering  of 
the  cloud,  in  the  mouldering  of  the  dust  as  in 
the  kindling  of  the  day-star. 

It  would  be  as  absurd  to  think  it  an  evil  that 
all  the  world  is  not  fit  for  us  to  inhabit,  as  to 
think  it  an  evil  that  the  globe  is  no  larger  than 
it  is.  As  much  as  we  shall  ever  aeed  is  evidently 
assigned  to  us  for  our  dwelling-place;  the  rest, 
covered  with  rolling  waves  or  drifting  sands, 
fretted  with  ice  or  crested  with  fire,  is  set  before 
us  for  contemplation  in  an  uninhabitable  mag- 
nificence; and  that  part  which  we  are  enabled 


MOUNTAINS.  I05 

to  inhabit  owes  its  fitness  for  human  life  chiefly 
to  its  mountain  ranges,  which,  throwing  the 
superfluous  rain  off  as  it  falls,  collect  it  in  streams 
or  lakes,  and  guide  it  into  given  places. 

In  some  sense,  a  person  who  has  never  seen 
the  rose-color  of  the  rays  of  dawn  crossing 
a  blue  mountain  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  away, 
can  hardly  be  said  to  know  what  tenderness  in 
color  means  at  all ;  bright  tenderness  he  may, 
indeed,  see  in  the  sky  or  in  a  flower,  but  this 
grave  tenderness  of  the  far-away  hill-purples  he 
cannot  conceive. 

Together  with  this  great  source  of  pre-emi- 
nence in  mass  of  color,  we  have  to  estimate  the 
influence  of  the  finished  inlaying  and  enamel- 
work  of  the  color-jewellery  on  every  stone;  and 
that  of  the  continual  variety  in  species  of  flower; 
most  of  the  mountain  flowers  being,  besides, 
separately  lovelier  than  the  lowland  ones.  The 
wood  hyacinth  and  wild  rose  are,  indeed,  the  only 
supreme  flowers  that  the  lowlands  can  generally 
show;  and  the  wild  rose  is  also  a  mountaineer, 
and  more  fragrant  in  the  hills,  while  the  wood 
hyacinth,  or  grape  hyacinth,  at  its  best  cannot 
match  even  the  dark  bell-gentian,  leaving  the 
light-blue  star-gentian  in  its  uncontested  queen- 
liness,  and  the  Alpine  rose  and  Highland  heather 
wholly  without  similitude.     The  violet,  lily  of 


Io6  NATURE. 

the  valley,  crocus,  and  wood  anemone  are,  I 
suppose,  claimable  partly  by  the  plains  as  well  as 
the  hills;  but  the  large  orange  lily  and  narcissus 
I  have  never  seen  but  on  hill  pastures,  and  the 
exquisite  oxalis  is  pre-eminently  a  mountaineer.* 

There  are  three  great  offices  which  mountain 
ranges  are  appointed  to  fulfil,  in  order  to  preserve 
the  health  and  increase  the  happiness  of  man- 
kind. 

i.  The  mountains  and  hills  give  motion  to 
water,  so  that  men  can  build  their  cities  in  the 
midst  of  fields  which  will  always  be  fertile,  and 
establish  the  lines  of  their  commerce  on  streams 
which  will  not  fail. 

2.  Mountains  maintain  a  constant  change  in 
the  currents  of  the  air.  Mountains  divide  the 
earth  not  only  into  districts,  but  into  climates, 
and  cause  perpetual  currents  of  air  to  traverse 
their  passes,  and  ascend  or  descend  their  ravines, 
altering  both  the  temperature  and  nature  of  the 
air  in  a  thousand  different  ways,  moistening  it 
with  the  spray  of  their  waterfalls,  sucking  it 
down  and  beating  it  hither  and  thither  in  the 
pools  of  their  torrents,  closing  it  within  clefts 

*The  Savoyard's  name  for  its  flower,  "  Pain  du  Bon 
Dieu,"  is  very  beautiful;  from,  I  believe,  the  supposed  re- 
semblance of  its  white  and  scattered  blossom  to  the  fallen 
manna. 


MOUNTAINS.  I07 

and  caves,  where  the  sunbeams  never  reach,  till 
it  is  as  cold  as  November  mists,  then  sending  it 
forth  again  to  breathe  softly  across  the  slopes  of 
velvet  fields,  or  to  be  scorched  among  sunburnt 
shales  and  shapeless  crags,  then  drawing  it  back 
in  moaning  swirls  through  clefts  of  ice,  and  up 
into  dewy  wreaths  above  the  snow-fields  ;  then 
piercing  it  with  strange  electric  darts  and  flashes 
of  mountain  fire,  and  tossing  it  high  in  fantastic 
storm-cloud  as  the  dried  grass  is  tossed  by  the 
mower,  only  suffering  it  to  depart  at  last,  when 
chastened  and  pure,  to  refresh  the  faded  air  of 
the  far-off  plains. 

3.  The  third  great  use  of  mountains  is  to 
cause  perpetual  change  in  the  soils  of  the  earth. 
Without  such  provisions  the  ground  under  culti- 
vation would  in  a  series  of  years  become  ex- 
hausted and  require  to  be  upturned  laboriously 
by  the  hand  of  man.  But  the  elevations  of  the 
earth's  surface  provide  for  it  a  perpetual  renova- 
tion. The  higher  mountains  suffer  their  sum- 
mits to  be  broken  into  fragments  and  to  be  cast 
down  in  sheets  of  massy  rock,  full,  as  we  shall 
see  presently,  of  every  substance  necessary  for 
the  nourishment  of  plants;  these  fallen  fragments 
are  again  broken  by  frost,  and  ground  by  tor- 
rents, into  various  conditions  of  sand  and  clay — 
materials  which  are  distributed  perpetually  by 
the  streams  farther  and  farther  from  the  moun- 


108  NATURE. 

tain's  base.  Every  shower  which  swells  the  riv- 
ulets enables  their  waters  to  carry  certain  por- 
tions of  earth  into  new  positions,  and  exposes 
new  banks  of  ground  to  be  mined  in  their  turn. 
That  turbid  foaming  of  the  angry  water, — that 
tearing  down  of  bank  and  rock  along  the  flanks 
of  its  fury, — are  no  disturbances  of  the  kind 
course  of  nature  ;  they  are  beneficent  operations 
of  laws  necessary  to  the  existence  of  man  and  to 
the  beauty  of  the  earth.  The  process  is  contin- 
ued more  gently,  but  not  less  effectively,  over 
all  the  surface  of  the  lower  undulating  country  ; 
and  each  filtering  thread  of  summer  rain  which 
trickles  through  the  short  turf  of  the  uplands  is 
bearing  its  own  appointed  burden  of  earth  to  be 
thrown  down  on  some  new  natural  garden  in  the 
dingles  below. 

And  it  is  not,  in  reality,  a  degrading,  but  a 
true,  large,  and  ennobling  view  of  the  mountain 
ranges  of  the  world,  if  we  compare  them  to 
heaps  of  fertile  and  fresh  earth,  laid  up  by  a 
prudent  gardener  beside  his  garden  beds,  whence, 
at  intervals,  he  casts  on  them  some  scattering  of 
new  and  virgin  ground.  That  which  we  so  often 
lament  as  convulsion  or  destruction  is  nothing 
else  than  the  momentary  shaking  off  the  dust 
from  the  spade.  The  winter  floods,  which  inflict 
a  temporary  devastation,  bear  with  them  the  ele- 
ments of  succeeding  fertility  ;  the  fruitful  field 


MOUNTAINS.  IOQ 

is  covered  with  sand  and  shingle  in  momentary 
judgment,  but  in  enduring  mercy  ;  and  the  great 
river,  which  chokes  its  mouth  with  marsh,  and 
tosses  terror  along  its  shore,  is  but  scattering 
the  seeds  of  the  harvests  of  futurity,  and  prepar- 
ing the  seats  of  unborn  generations. 

I  have  not  spoken  of  the  local  and  peculiar 
utilities  of  mountains  :  I  do  not  count  the  bene- 
fit of  the  supply  of  summer  streams  from  the 
moors  of  the  higher  ranges — of  the  various  me- 
dicinal plants  which  are  nested  among  their 
rocks, — of  the  delicate  pasturage  which  they 
furnish  for  cattle,'" — of  the  forests  in  which  they 
bear  timber  for  shipping — the  stones  they  supply 
for  building,  or  the  ores  of  metal  which  they 
collect  into  spots  open  to  discovery,  and  easy 
for  working.  All  these  benefits  are  of  a  second- 
ary or  a  limited  nature.  But  the  three  great 
functions  which  I  have  just  described, — those 
of  giving  motion  and  change  to  water,  air,  and 
earth, — are  indispensable  to  human  existence  ; 
they  are  operations  to  be  regarded  with  as  full 
a  depth  of  gratitude  as  the  laws  which  bid  the 
tree  bear  fruit,  or  the  seed  multiply  itself  in  the 
earth.  And  thus  those  desolate  and  threaten- 
ing ranges  of  dark  mountain,  which,  in  nearly  all 

*  The  highest  pasturages  (at  least  so  say  the  Savoyards) 
being  always  the  best  and  richest. 


IIO  NATURE. 

ages  of  the  world,  men  have  looked  upon  with 
aversion  or  with  terror,  and  shrunk  back  from 
as  if  they  were  haunted  by  perpetual  images  of 
death,  are,  in  reality,  sources  of  life  and  happi- 
ness far  fuller  and  more  beneficent  than  all  the 
bright  fruitfulness  of  the  plain.  The  valleys 
only  feed  ;  the  mountains  feed,  and  guard, 
and  strengthen  us.  We  take  our  idea  of 
fearfulness  and  sublimity  alternately  from  the 
mountains  and  the  sea  ;  but  we  associate  them 
unjustly.  The  sea  wave,  with  all  its  beneficence, 
is  yet  devouring  and  terrible,  but  the  silent  wave 
of  the  blue  mountain  is  lifted  towards  heaven  in 
a  stillness  of  perpetual  mercy  ;  and  the  one 
surge,  unfathomable  in  its  darkness,  the  other, 
unshaken  in  its  faithfulness,  for  ever  bear  the 
seal  of  their  appointed  symbol  : 

"  Thy  righteousness  is  like  the  great  mountains  : 
Thy  judgmetits  are  a  great  deep." 

The  higher  mountains  have  their  scenes  of 
power  and  vastness,  their  blue  precipices  and 
cloud-like  snows  ;  why  should  they  also  have  the 
best  and  fairest  colors  given  to  their  foreground 
rocks,  and  overburden  the  human  mind  with 
wonder,  while  the  less  majestic  scenery,  tempting 
us  to  the  observance  of  details  for  which  amidst 
the  higher  mountains  we  have  no  admiration  left, 


MOUNTAINS.  Ill 

is  yet,  in  the  beauty  of  those  very  details,  as  in- 
ferior as  it  is  in  scale  of  magnitude  ? 

I  believe  the^answer  must  be,  simply,  that  it  is 
not  good  for  man  to  live  among  what  is  most 
beautiful  ; — that  he  is  a  creature  incapable  of 
satisfaction  by  anything  upon  earth  ;  and  that 
to  allow  him  habitually  to  possess,  in  any  kind 
whatsoever,  the  utmost  that  earth  can  give,  is 
the  surest  way  to  cast  him  into  lassitude  or  dis- 
content. 

If  the  most  exquisite  orchestral  music  could 
be  continued  without  a  pause  for  a  series  of 
years,  and  children  were  brought  up  and  edu- 
cated in  the  room  in  which  it  were  perpetually 
resounding,  I  believe  their  enjoyment  of  music, 
or  understanding  it,  would  be  very  small.  And 
an  accurately  parallel  effect  seems  to  be  pro- 
duced upon  the  powers  of  contemplation,  by  the 
redundant  and  ceaseless  loveliness  of  the  high 
mountain  districts.  The  faculties  are  paralysed 
by  the  abundance,  and  cease,  as  we  before  no- 
ticed of  the  imagination,  to  be  capable  of  excite- 
ment, except  by  other  subjects  of  interest  than 
those  which  present  themselves  to  the  eye.  So 
that  it  is,  in  reality,  better  for  mankind  that  the 
forms  of  their  common  landscape  should  offer  no 
violent  stimulus  to  the  emotions, — that  the  gen- 
tle upland,  browned  by  the  bending  furrows  of 
the  plough,  and  the   fresh  sweep  of   the  chalk 


112  NA  TURE. 

down,  and  the  narrow  winding  of  the  copse-clad 
dingle,  should  be  more  frequent  scenes  of  human 
life  than  the  Arcadias  of  cloud-capped  mountain 
or  luxuriant  vale  ;  and  that,  while  humbler 
(though  always  infinite)  sources  of  interest  are 
given  to  each  of  us  around  the  homes  to  which 
we  are  restrained  for  the  greater  part  of  our 
lives,  these  mightier  and  stranger  glories  should 
become  the  objects  of  adventure, — at  once  the 
cynosures  of  the  fancies  of  childhood,  and 
themes  of  the  happy  memory,  and  the  winter's 
tale  of  age. 

Nor  is  it  always  that  the  inferiority  is  felt. 
For,  so  natural  is  it  to  the  human  heart  to  fix 
itself  in  hope  rather  than  in  present  possession, 
and  so  subtle  is  the  charm  which  the  imagina- 
tion casts  over  what  is  distant  or  denied,  that 
there  is  often  a  more  touching  power  in  the 
scenes  which  contain  far-away  promise  of  some- 
thing greater  than  themselves,  than  in  those 
which  exhaust  the  treasures  and  powers  of  Na- 
ture in  an  unconquerable  and  excellent  glory, 
leaving  nothing  more  to  be  by  the  fancy  pic- 
tured or  pursued. 

I  do  not  know  that  there  is  a  district  in  the 
world  more  calculated  to  illustrate  this  power  of 
the  expectant  imagination,  than  that  which  sur- 
rounds the  city  of  Fribourg  in  Switzerland,  ex- 
tending from  it  towards  Berne.     It  is  of  gray 


MOUNTAINS.  113 

sandstone,  considerably  elevated,  but  presenting 
no  object  of  striking  interest  to  the  passing 
traveller;  so  that,  as  it  is  generally  seen  in  the 
course  of  a  hasty  journey  from  the  Bernese  Alps 
to  those  of  Savoy,  it  is  rarely  regarded  with  any 
other  sensation  than  that  of  weariness,  all  the 
more  painful  because  accompanied  with  reaction 
from  the  high  excitement  caused  by  the  splendor 
of  the  Bernese  Oberland.  The  traveller,  foot- 
sore, feverish,  and  satiated  with  glacier  and  pre- 
cipice, lies  back  in  the  corner  of  the  diligence, 
perceiving  little  more  than  that  the  road  is  wind- 
ing and  hilly,  and  the  country  through  which  it 
passes  cultivated  and  tame.  Let  him,  however, 
only  do  this  tame  country  the  justice  of  stay- 
ing in  it  a  few  days,  until  his  mind  has  recov- 
ered its  tone,  and  taken  one  or  two  long  walks 
through  its  fields,  and  he  will  have  other  thoughts 
of  it.  It  is,  as  I  said,  an  undulating  district  of 
gray  sandstone,  never  attaining  any  considerable 
height,  but  having  enough  of  the  mountain 
spirit  to  throw  itself  into  continual  succession 
of  bold  slope  and  dale;  elevated,  also,  just  far 
enough  above  the  sea  to  render  the  pine  a  fre- 
quent forest  tree  along  its  irregular  ridges. 
Through  this  elevated  tract  the  river  cuts  its 
way  in  a  ravine  some  five  or  six  hundred  feet  in 
depth,  which  winds  for  leagues  between  the  gen- 
tle  hills,   unthought   of,  until    its    edge    is    ap- 


114  NATURE. 

proached ;  and  then  suddenly,  through  the 
boughs  of  the  firs,  the  eye  perceives,  beneath, 
the  green  and  gliding  stream,  and  the  broad 
walls  of  sandstone  cliff  that  form  its  banks,  hol- 
lowed out  where  the  river  leans  against  them,  at 
its  turns,  into  perilous  overhanging,  and,  on  the 
other  shore,  at  the  same  spots,  leaving  little 
breadths  of  meadow  between  them  and  the  wa- 
ter, half-overgrown  with  thicket,  deserted  in 
their  sweetness,  inaccessible  from  above,  and 
rarely  visited  by  any  curious  wanderers  along 
the  hardly  traceable  footpath  which  struggles 
for  existence  beneath  the  rocks.  And  there 
the  river  ripples,  and  eddies,  and  murmurs  in  an 
utter  solitude.  It  is  passing  through  the  midst 
of  a  thickly  peopled  country;  but  never  was  a 
stream  so  lonely.  The  feeblest  and  most  far- 
away torrent  among  the  high  hills  has  its  com- 
panions: the  goats  browse  beside  it;  and  the 
traveller  drinks  from  it,  and  passes  over  it  with 
his  staff;  and  the  peasant  traces  a  new  channel 
for  it  down  to  his  mill-wheel.  But  this  stream 
has  no  companions  :  it  flows  on  in  an  infinite 
seclusion,  not  secret  or  threatening,  but  a  quiet- 
ness of  sweet  daylight  and  open  air, — a  broad 
space  of  tender  and  deep  desolateness,  drooped 
into  repose  out  of  the  midst  of  human  labor  and 
life;  the  waves  plashing  lowly,  with  none  to 
hear  them;  and  the  wild  birds  building  in  the 


MOUNTAINS.  115 

boughs,  with  none  to  fray  them  away;  and  the 
soft  fragrant  herbs  rising,  and  breathing,  and 
fading,  with  no  hand  to  gather  them; — and  yet 
all  bright  and  bare  to  the  clouds  above,  and  to 
the  fresh  fall  of  the  passing  sunshine  and  pure 
rain. 

But  above  the  brows  of  those  scarped  cliffs, 
all  is  in  an  instant  changed.  A  few  steps  only 
beyond  the  firs  that  stretch  their  branches,  an- 
gular, and  wild,  and  white,  like  forks  of  light- 
ning, into  the  air  of  the  ravine,  and  we  are  in  an 
arable  country  of  the  most  perfect  richness;  the 
swathes  of  its  corn  glowing  and  burning  from 
field  to  field;  its  pretty  hamlets  all  vivid  with 
fruitful  orchards  and  flowery  gardens,  and  goodly 
with  steep-roofed  storehouse  and  barn;  its  well- 
kept,  hard,  park-like  roads  rising  and  falling 
from  hillside  to  hillside,  or  disappearing  among 
brown  banks  of  moss,  and  thickets  of  the  wild 
raspberry  and  rose;  or  gleaming  through  lines 
of  tall  trees,  half  glade,  half  avenue,  where  the 
gate  opens,  or  the  gateless  path  turns  trustedly 
aside,  unhindered,  into  the  garden  of  some 
statelier  house,  surrounded  in  rural  pride  with 
its  golden  hives,  and  carved  granaries,  and  ir- 
regular domain  of  latticed  and  espaliered  cot- 
tages, gladdening  to  look  upon  in  their  homeli- 
ness— delicate,  yet,  in  some  sort,  rude;  not  like 
our  English  homes — trim,  laborious,  formal,  ir- 


Il6  NATURE. 

reproachable  in  comfort;  but  with  a  peculiar 
carelessness  and  largeness  in  all  their  detail, 
harmonizing  with  the  outlawed  loveliness  of 
their  country.  For  there  is  an  untamed  strength 
even  in  all  that  soft  and  habitable  land.  It  is, 
indeed,  gilded  with  corn  and  fragrant  with  deep 
grass,  but  it  is  not  subdued  to  the  plough  or  to 
the  scythe.  It  gives  at  its  own  free  will, — it 
seems  to  have  nothing  wrested  from  it  nor  con- 
quered in  it.  It  is  not  redeemed  from  desert- 
ness,  but  unrestrained  in  fruitfulness, — a  gener- 
ous land,  bright  with  capricious  plenty,  and 
laughing  from  vale  to  vale  in  fitful  fulness,  kind 
and  wild;  nor  this  without  some  sterner  element 
mingled  in  the  heart  of  it.  For  along  all  its 
ridges  stand  the  dark  masses  of  innumerable 
pines,  taking  no  part  in  its  gladness,  asserting 
themselves  for  ever  as  fixed  shadows,  not  to  be 
pierced  or  banished,  even  in  the  intensest  sun- 
light; fallen  flakes  and  fragments  of  the  night, 
stayed  in  their  solemn  squares  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  rosy  bendings  of  the  orchard  boughs,  and 
the  yellow  effulgence  of  the  harvest,  and  tracing 
themselves  in  black  network  and  motionless 
fringes  against  the  blanched  blue  of  the  horizon 
in  its  saintly  clearness.  And  yet  they  do  not 
sadden  the  landscape,  but  seem  to  have  been  set 
there  chiefly  to  show  how  bright  everything  else 
is  round  them;  and  all  the  clouds  look  of  purer 


MOUNTAINS.  117 

silver,  and  all  the  air  seems  filled  with  a  whiter 
and  more  living  sunshine,  where  they  are  pierced 
by  the  sable  points  of  the  pines;  and  all  the 
pastures  look'of  more  glowing  green,  where  they 
run  up  between  the  purple  trunks;  and  the 
sweet  field  footpaths  skirt  the  edges  of  the  for- 
est for  the  sake  of  its  shade,  sloping  up  and 
down  about  the  slippery  roots,  and  losing  them- 
selves every  now  and  then  hopelessly  among  the 
violets,  and  ground  ivy,  and  brown  sheddings  of 
the  fibrous  leaves;  and,  at  last,  plunging  into 
some  open  aisle  where  the  light  through  the  dis- 
tant stems  shows  that  there  is  a  chance  of  com- 
ing out  again  on  the  other  side;  and  coming 
out,  indeed,  in  a  little  while  from  the  scented 
darkness,  into  the  dazzling  air  and  marvellous 
landscape,  that  stretches  still  farther  and  far- 
ther in  new  wilfulnesses  of  grove  and  garden, 
until,  at  last,  the  craggy  mountains  of  the  Sim- 
menthal  rise  out  of  it,  sharp  into  the  rolling  of 
the  southern  clouds. 

Close  beside  the  path  by  which  travellers  as- 
cend the  Montanvert  from  the  valley  of  Cha- 
mouni,  on  the  right  hand,  where  it  first  begins 
to  rise  among  the  pines,  there  descends  a  small 
stream  from  the  foot  of  the  granite  peak  known 
to  the  guides  as  the  Aiguille  Charmoz.  It  is 
concealed  from  the  traveller  by  a  thicket  of  al- 
der, and  its  murmur  is  hardly  heard,  for  it  is  one 


Il8  NATURE. 

of  the  weakest  streams  of  the  valley.  Eut  it  is 
a  constant  stream;  fed  by  a  permanent  though 
small  glacier,  and  continuing  to  flow  even  to  the 
close  of  the  summer,  when  more  copious  tor- 
rents, depending  on  the  melting  of  the  lower 
snows,  have  left  their  beds  "  stony  channels  in 
the  sun." 

I  suppose  that  my  readers  must  be  generally 
aware  that  glaciers  are  masses  of  ice  in  slow  mo- 
tion, at  the  rate  of  from  ten  to  twenty  inches  a 
day,  and  that  the  stones  which  are  caught  be- 
tween them  and  the  rocks  over  which  they  pass, 
or  which  are  embedded  in  the  ice  and  dragged 
along  by  it  over  those  rocks,  are  of  course  sub- 
jected to  a  crushing  and  grinding  power  alto- 
gether unparalleled  by  any  other  force  in  con- 
stant action.  The  dust  to  which  these  stones 
are  reduced  by  the  friction  is  carried  down  by 
the  streams  which  flow  from  the  melting  glacier, 
so  that  the  water  which  in  the  morning  may  be 
pure,  owing  what  little  strength  it  has  chiefly  to 
the  rock  springs,  is  in  the  afternoon  not  only  in- 
creased in  volume,  but  whitened  with  dissolved 
dust  of  granite,  in  proportion  to  the  heat  of  the 
preceding  hours  of  the  day,  and  to  the  power 
and  size  of  the  glacier  which  feeds  it. 

The  long  drought  which  took  place  in  the 
autumn  of  the  year  1854,  sealing  every  source  of 
waters  except  these  perpetual  ones,  left  the  tor- 


MOUNTAINS.  119 

rent  of  which  I  am  speaking,  and  such  others,  in 
a  state  peculiarly  favorable  to  observance  of 
their  least  action  on  the  mountains  from  which 
they  descend.  .They  were  entirely  limited  to 
their  own  ice  fountains,  and  the  quantity  of  pow- 
dered rock  which  they  brought  down  was,  of 
course,  at  its  minimum,  being  nearly  unmingled 
with  any  earth  derived  from  the  dissolution  of 
softer  soil,  or  vegetable  mould,  by  rains. 

At  three  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  warm  day  in 
September,  when  the  torrent  had  reached  its 
average  maximum  strength  for  the  day,  I  filled 
an  ordinary  Bordeaux  wine-flask  with  the  water 
where  it  was  least  turbid.  From  this  quart  of 
water  I  obtained  twenty-four  grains  of  sand  and 
sediment,  more  or  less  fine.  I  cannot  estimate 
the  quantity  of  water  in  the  stream  ;  but  the 
runlet  of  it  at  which  I  filled  the  flask  was  giving 
about  two  hundred  bottles  a  minute,  or  rather 
more,  carrying  down  therefore  about  three  quar- 
ters of  a  pound  of  powdered  granite  every  min- 
ute. This  would  be  forty-five  pounds  an  hour  ; 
but  allowing  for  the  inferior  power  of  the  stream 
in  the  cooler  periods  of  the  day,  and  taking  into 
consideration,  on  the  other  side,  its  increased 
power  in  rain,  we  may,  I  think,  estimate  its  aver- 
age hour's  work  at  twenty-eight  or  thirty  pounds, 
or  a  hundred-weight  every  four  hours.  By  this 
insignificant  runlet,  therefore,  some  four  inches 


120  NATURE. 

wide  and  four  inches  deep,  rather  more  than  two 
tons  of  the  substance  of  Mont  Blanc  are  dis- 
placed, and  carried  down  a  certain  distance 
every  week;  and  as  it  is  only  for  three  or  four 
months  that  the  flow  of  the  stream  is  checked 
by  frost,  we  may  certainly  allow  eighty  tons  for 
the  mass  which  it  annually  moves. 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  enter  into  any  calcu- 
lation of  the  relation  borne  by  this  runlet  to  the 
great  torrents  which  descend  from  the  chain  of 
Mont  Blanc  into  the  valley  of  Chamouni.  To 
call  it  the  thousandth  part  of  the  glacier  waters, 
would  give  a  ludicrous  under-estimate  of  their 
total  power  ;  but  even  so  calling  it,  we  should 
find  for  result  that  eighty  thousand  tons  of 
mountain  must  be  yearly  transformed  into  drifted 
sand,  and  carried  down  a  certain  distance.* 
How  much  greater  than  this  is  the  actual  quan- 
tity so  transformed  I  cannot  tell;  but  take  this 
quantity  as  certain,  and  consider  that  this  repre- 
sents merely  the  results  of  the  labor  of  the  con- 
stant summer  streams,  utterly  irrespective  of  all 
sudden  falls  of  stones  and  of  masses  of  mountain 
(a  single  thunderbolt  will  sometimes  leave  a  scar 

*  How  far,  is  another  question.  The  sand  which  the 
stream  brings  from  the  bottom  of  one  eddy  in  its  course, 
it  throws  down  in  the  next  ;  all  that  is  proved  by  the  above 
trial  is,  that  so  many  tons  of  material  are  annually  carried 
down  by  it  a  certain  number  of  feet. 


MOUNTAINS.  121 

on  the  flank  of  a  soft  rock,  looking  like  a  trench 
for  a  railroad);  and  we  shall  then  begin  to  appre- 
hend something  of  the  operation  of  the  great 
laws  of  change,  which  are  the  conditions  of  all 
material  existence,  however  apparently  enduring. 
The  hills,  which,  as  compared  with  living  beings, 
seem  "  everlasting,"  are,  in  truth,  as  perishing  as 
they  :  its  veins  of  flowing  fountain  weary  the 
mountain  heart,  as  the  crimson  pulse  does  ours; 
the  natural  force  of  the  iron  crag  is  abated  in  its 
appointed  time,  like  the  strength  of  the  sinews 
in  a  human  old  age  ;  and  it  is  but  the  lapse  of 
the  longer  years  of  decay  which,  in  the  sight  of 
its  Creator,  distinguishes  the  mountain  range  from 
the  moth  and  the  worm. 

And  hence  two  questions  arise  of  the  deepest 
interest.  From  what  first  created  forms  were 
the  mountains  brought  into  their  present  condi- 
tion ?  into  what  forms  will  they  change  in  the 
course  of  ages  ?  Was  the  world  anciently  in  a 
more  or  less  perfect  state  than  it  is  now  ?  was  it 
less  or  more  fitted  for  the  habitation  of  the 
human  race  ?  and  are  the  changes  which  it  is  now 
undergoing  favorable  to  that  race  or  not  ?  The 
present  conformation  of  the  earth  appears  dic- 
tated, as  has  been  shown  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ters, by  supreme  wisdom  and  kindness.  And 
yet  its  former  state  must  have  been  different 
from  what  it  is  now;  as  its  present  one  from  that 


X2Z  MATURE. 

which  it  must  assume  hereafter.  Is  this,  there- 
fore, the  earth's  prime  into  which  we  are  born; 
or  is  it,  with  all  its  beauty,  only  the  wreck  of 
Paradise? 

I  cannot  entangle  the  reader  in  the  intricacy 
of  the  inquiries  necessary  for  anything  like  a 
satisfactory  solution  of  these  questions.  But, 
were  he  to  engage  in  such  inquiries,  their  result 
would  be  his  strong  conviction  of  the  earth's 
having  been  brought  from  a  state  in  which  it 
was  utterly  uninhabitable  into  one  fitted  for 
man;  of  its  having  been,  when  first  inhabit- 
able, more  beautiful  than  it  is  now;  and  of  its 
gradually  tending  to  still  greater  inferiority  of 
aspect,  and  unfitness  for  abode. 

It  has  indeed  been  the  endeavor  of  some 
geologists  to  prove  that  destruction  and  renova- 
tion are  continually  proceeding  simultaneously 
in  mountains  as  well  as  in  organic  creatures; 
that  while  existing  eminences  are  being  slowly 
lowered,  others,  in  order  to  supply  their  place, 
are  being  slowly  elevated;  and  that  what  is  lost 
in  beauty  or  healthiness  in  one  spot  is  gained  in 
another.  But  I  cannot  assent  to  such  a  conclu- 
sion. Evidence  altogether  incontrovertible  points 
to  a  state  of  the  earth  in  which  it  could  be  ten- 
anted only  by  lower  animals,  fitted  for  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  they  lived  by  peculiar 
organizations.     From  this  state  it  is   admitted 


MOUNTAINS.  123 

gradually  to  have  been  brought  into  that  in 
which  we  now  see  it;  and  the  circumstances  of 
the  existing  dispensation,  whatever  may  be  the 
date  of  its  endurance,  seem  to  me  to  point  not 
less  clearly  to  an  end  than  to  an  origin;  to  a 
creation,  when  "  the  earth  was  without  form  and 
void,"  and  to  a  close,  when  it  must  either  be 
renovated  or  destroyed. 

In  one  sense,  and  in  one  only,  the  idea  of  a 
continuous  order  of  things  is  admissible,  in  so 
far  as  the  phenomena  which  introduced,  and 
those  which  are  to  terminate,  the  existing  dis- 
pensation, may  have  been,  and  may  in  future  be, 
nothing  more  than  a  gigantic  development  of 
agencies  which  are  in  continual  operation  around 
us.  The  experience  we  possess  of  volcanic 
agency  is  not  yet  large  enough  to  enable  us  to 
set  limits  to  its  force;  and  as  we  see  the  rarity 
of  subterraneous  action  generally  proportioned 
to  it  violence,  there  may  be  appointed,  in  the 
natural  order  of  things,  convulsions  to  take  place 
after  certain  epochs,  on  a  scale  which  the  human 
race  has  not  yet  lived  long  enough  to  witness. 
The  soft  silver  cloud  which  writhes  innocently 
on  the  crest  of  Vesuvius,  rests  there  without  in- 
termission; but  the  fury  which  lays  cities  in 
sepulchres  of  lava  bursts  forth  only  after  inter- 
vals of  centuries;  and  the  still  fiercer  indignation 
of  the  greater  volcanoes,  which  makes  half  the 


124  NATURE. 

globe  vibrate  with  earthquake,  and  shrivels  up 
whole  kingdoms  with  flame,  is  recorded  only  in 
dim  distances  of  history:  so  that  it  is  not  irra- 
tional to  admit  that  there  may  yet  be  powers 
dormant,  not  destroyed,  beneath  the  apparently 
calm  surface  of  the  earth,  whose  date  of  rest  is 
the  endurance  of  the  human  race,  and  whose 
date  of  action  must  be  that  of  its  doom.  But 
whether  such  colossal  agencies  are  indeed  in  the 
existing  order  of  things  or  not,  still  the  effective 
truth,  for  us,  is  one  and  the  same.  The  earth, 
as  a  tormented  and  trembling  ball,  may  have 
rolled  in  space  for  myriads  of  ages  before 
humanity  was  formed  from  its  dust;  and  as  a 
devastated  ruin  it  may  continue  to  roll,  when  all 
that  dust  shall  again  have  been  mingled  with 
ashes  that  never  were  warmed  by  life,  or  polluted 
by  sin.  But  for  us  the  intelligible  and  substan- 
tial fact  is  that  the  earth  has  been  brought,  by 
forces  we  know  not  of,  into  a  form  fitted  for 
our  habitation:  on  that  form  a  gradual  but  de- 
structive change  is  continually  taking  place,  and 
the  course  of  that  change  points  clearly  to  a 
period  when  it  will  no  more  be  fitted  for  the 
dwelling-place  of  men. 

It  is,  therefore,  not  so  much  what  these  forms 
of  the  earth  actually  are,  as  what  they  are  con- 
tinually becoming,  that  we  have  to  observe;  nor 
is  it  possible  thus  to  observe  them  without  an 


MOUNTAINS.  125 

instinctive  reference  to  the  first  state  out  of 
which  they  have  been  brought.  The  existing 
torrent  has  dug  its  bed  a  thousand  feet  deep. 
But  in  what  form  was  the  mountain  originally 
raised  which  gave  that  torrent  its  track  and 
power?  The  existing  precipice  is  wrought  into 
towers  and  bastions  by  the  perpetual  fall  of  its 
fragments.  In  what  form  did  it  stand  before  a 
single  fragment  fell  ? 

Yet  to  such  questions,  continually  suggesting 
themselves,  it  is  never  possible  to  give  a  com- 
plete answer.  For  a  certain  distance,  the  past 
work  of  existing  forces  can  be  traced;  but  there 
gradually  the  mist  gathers,  and  the  footsteps  of 
more  gigantic  agencies  are  traceable  in  the  dark- 
ness ;  and  still,  as  we  endeavor  to  penetrate 
farther  and  farther  into  departed  time,  the  thun- 
der of  the  Almighty  power  sounds  louder  and 
louder ;  and  the  clouds  gather  broader  and 
more  fearfully,  until  at  last  the  Sinai  of  the  world 
is  seen  altogether  upon  a  smoke,  and  the  fence 
of  its  foot  is  reached,  which  none  can  break 
through. 

If,  therefore,  we  venture  to  advance  towards 
the  spot  where  the  cloud  first  comes  down,  it  is 
rather  with  the  purpose  of  fully  pointing  out 
that  there  is  a  cloud,  than  of  entering  into  it. 
It  is  well  to  have  been  fully  convinced  of  the 
existence  of  the  mystery,  in  an  age  far  too  apt 


1 26  NA  TURE. 

to  suppose  that  everything  which  is  visible  is  ex- 
plicable, and  everything  that  is  present,  eter- 
nal. 

In  the  actual  form  of  any  mountain  peak, 
there  must  usually  be  traceable  the  shadow  or 
skeleton  of  its  former  self,  like  the  obscure  in- 
dications of  the  first  frame  of  a  war-worn  tower, 
preserved,  in  some  places,  under  the  heap  of  its 
ruins,  in  others  to  be  restored  in  imagination 
from  the  thin  remnants  of  its  tottering  shell ; 
while  here  and  there,  in  some  sheltered  spot,  a 
few  unfallen  stones  retain  their  Gothic  sculp- 
ture, and  a  few  touches  of  the  chisel,  or  stains 
of  color,  inform  us  of  the  mind  and  perfect  skill 
of  the  old  designer.  With  this  great  difference, 
nevertheless,  that  in  the  human  architecture  the 
builder  did  not  calculate  upon  ruin,  nor  appoint 
the  course  of  impendent  desolation;  but  that  in 
the  hand  of  the  great  Architect  of  the  mountains, 
time  and  decay  are  as  much  the  instruments  of 
His  purpose  as  the  forces  by  which  He  first  led 
forth  the  troops  of  hills  in  leaping  flocks: — the 
lightning  and  the  torrent,  and  the  wasting  and 
weariness  of  innumerable  ages,  all  bear  their 
part  in  the  working  out  of  one  consistent  plan; 
and  the  Builder  of  the  temple  for  ever  stands 
beside  His  work,  appointing  the  stone  that  is  to 
fall,  and  the  pillar  that  is  to  be  abased,  and 
guiding  all  the  seeming  wildness  of  chance  and 


MOUNTAINS.  127 

change,  into  ordained   splendors  and  foreseen 
harmonies. 

I  believe,  for  general  development  of  human 
intelligence  and  sensibility,  country  of  this  kind 
is  about  the  most  perfect  that  exists.  A  richer 
landscape,  as  that  of  Italy,  enervates,  or  causes 
wantonness;  a  poorer  contracts  the  concep- 
tions, and  hardens  the  temperament  of  both 
mind  and  body;  and  one  more  curiously  or 
prominently  beautiful  deadens  the  sense  of 
beauty.  Even  what  is  here  of  attractiveness, — 
far  exceeding,  as  it  does,  that  of  most  of  the 
thickly  peopled  districts  of  the  temperate  zone, 
— seems  to  act  harmfully  on  the  poetical  char- 
acter of  the  Swiss;  but  take  its  inhabitants  all 
in  all,  as  with  deep  love  and  stern  penetration 
they  are  painted  in  the  works  of  their  principal 
writer,  Gotthelf,  and  I  believe  we  shall  not  easily 
find  a  peasantry  which  would  completely  sustain 
comparison  with  them. 

To  myself,  mountains  are  the  beginning  and 
the  end  of  all  natural  scenery;  in  them,  and  in 
the  forms  of  inferior  landscape  that  lead  to 
them,  my  affections  are  wholly  bound  up;  and 
though  I  can  look  with  happy  admiration  at  the 
lowland  flowers,  and  woods,  and  open  skies,  the 
happiness  is  tranquil  and  cold,  like  that  of  ex- 
amining detached  flowers  in  a  conservatory,  or 


128  NATURE. 

reading  a  pleasant  book;  and  if  the  scenery  be 
resolutely  level,  insisting  upon  the  declaration 
of  its  own  flatness  in  all  the  detail  of  it,  as  in 
Holland,  or  Lincolnshire,  or  Central  Lombardy, 
it  appears  to  me  like  a  prison,  and  I  cannot  long 
endure  it.  But  the  slightest  rise  and  fall  in  the 
road, — a  mossy  bank  at  the  side  of  a  crag  of 
chalk,  with  brambles  at  its  brow,  overhanging  it, 
— a  ripple  over  three  or  four  stones  in  the 
stream  by  the  bridge, — above  all,  a  wild  bit  of 
ferny  ground  under  a  fir  or  two,  looking  as  if, 
possibly,  one  might  see  a  hill  if  one  got  to  the 
other  side  of  the  trees,  will  instantly  give  me  in- 
tense delight,  because  the  shadow,  or  the  hope, 
of  the  hills  is  in  them. 

And,  in  fact,  much  of  the  apparently  harmful 
influence  of  hills  on  the  religion  of  the  world  is 
nothing  else  than  their  general  gift  of  exciting 
the  poetical  and  inventive  faculties,  in  peculiarly 
solemn  tones  of  mind.  Their  terror  leads  into 
devotional  casts  of  thought;  their  beauty  and 
wildness  prompt  the  invention  at  the  same  time; 
and  where  the  mind  is  not  gifted  with  stern  rea- 
soning powers,  or  protected  by  purity  of  teach- 
ing, it  is  sure  to  mingle  the  invention  with  its 
creed,  and  the  vision  with  its  prayer.  Strictly 
speaking,  we  ought  to  consider  the  superstitions 
of  the  hills,  universally,  as  a  form  of  poetry;  re- 
gretting  only  that   men  have   not  yet  learned 


MOUNTAINS.  129 

how   to   distinguish    poetry   from    well-founded 
faith. 

It  has  always  appeared  to  me  that  there  was, 
even  in  healthy  mountain  districts,  a  certain  de- 
gree of  inevitable  melancholy;  nor  could  I  ever 
escape  from  the  feeling  that  here,  where  chiefly 
the  beauty  of  God's  working  was  manifested  to 
men,  warning  was  also  given,  and  that  to  the 
full,  of  the  enduring  of  His  indignation  against 
sin. 

It  seems  one  of  the  most  cunning  and  fre- 
quent of  self-deceptions  to  turn  the  heart  away 
from  this  warning  and  refuse  to  acknowledge 
anything  in  the  fair  scenes  of  the  natural  crea- 
tion but  beneficence.  Men  in  general  lean  to- 
wards the  light,  so  far  as  they  contemplate  such 
things  at  all,  most  of  them  passing  "  by  on  the 
other  side,"  either  in  mere  plodding  pursuit  of 
their  own  work,  irrespective  of  what  good  or 
evil  is  around  them,  or  else  in  selfish  gloom,  or 
selfish  delight,  resulting  from  their  own  circum- 
stances at  the  moment.  Of  those  who  give 
themselves  to  any  true  contemplation,  the  plu- 
rality, being  humble,  gentle  and  kindly-hearted, 
look  only  in  nature  for  what  is  lovely  and  kind; 
partly,  also,  God  gives  the  disposition  to  every 
healthy  human  mind  in  some  degree  to  pass 
over  or  even  harden  itself  against  evil  things, 


I  30  NA  TURE. 

else  the  suffering  would  be  too  great  to  be  borne; 
and  humble  people,  with  a  quiet  trust  that  every- 
thing is  for  the  best,  do  not  fairly  represent  the 
facts  to  themselves,  thinking  them  none  of  their 
business.  So,  what  between  hard-hearted  people, 
thoughtless  people,  busy  people,  humble  people, 
and  cheerfully-minded  people, — giddiness  of 
youth,  and  preoccupations  of  age, — philosophies 
of  faith,  and  cruelties  of  folly, — priest  and  Levite, 
masquer  and  merchantman,  all  agreeing  to  keep 
their  own  side  of  the  way, — the  evil  that  God 
sends  to  warn  us  gets  to  be  forgotten,  and  the 
evil  that  He  sends  to  be  mended  by  us  gets  left 
unmended.  And  then,  because  people  shut  their 
eyes  to  the  dark  indisputableness  of  the  facts  in 
front  of  them,  their  Faith,  such  as  it  is,  is  shaken 
or  uprooted  by  every  darkness  in  what  is  revealed 
to  them.  In  the  present  day  it  is  not  easy  to 
find  a  well-meaning  man  among  our  more  earnest 
thinkers,  who  will  not  take  upon  himself  to  dispute 
the  whole  system  of  redemption,  because  he  can- 
not unravel  the  mystery  of  the  punishment  of  sin. 
But  can  he  unravel  the  mystery  of  the  punish- 
ment of  no  sin  ?  Can  he  entirely  account  for 
all  that  happens  to  a  cab-horse  ?  Has  he  ever 
looked  fairly  at  the  fate  of  one  of  those  beasts 
as  it  is  dying, — measured  the  work  it  has  done, 
and  the  reward  it  has  got,  put  his  hand  upon  the 
bloody   wounds    through   which   its   bones   are 


MOUNTAINS.  131 

piercing,  and  so  looked  up  to  Heaven  with  an 
entire  understanding  of  Heaven's  ways  about 
the  horse!  "Yet  the  horse  is  a  fact — no  dream — 
no  revelation  among  the  myrtle  trees  by  night; 
and  the  dust  it  dies  upon,  and  the  dogs  that  eat 
it,  are  facts;  and  yonder  happy  person,  whose 
the  horse  was  till  its  knees  were  broken  over 
the  hurdles,  who  had  an  immortal  soul  to  begin 
with,  and  wealth  and  peace  to  help  forward  his 
immortality;  who  has  also  devoted  the  powers 
of  his  soul,  and  body,  and  wealth,  and  peace,  to 
the  spoiling  of  houses,  the  corruption  of  the 
innocent,  and  the  oppression  of  the  poor;  and 
has,  at  this  actual  moment  of  his  prosperous 
life,  as  many  curses  waiting  round  about  him  in 
calm  shadow,  with  their  death's  eyes  fixed  upon 
him,  biding  their  time,  as  ever  the  poor  cab- 
horse  had  launched  at  him  in  meaningless  blas- 
phemies, when  his  failing  feet  stumbled  at  the 
stones, — this  happy  person  shall  have  no  stripes, 
— shall  have  only  the  horse's  fate  of  annihila- 
tion; or,  if  other  things  are  indeed  reserved  for 
him,  Heaven's  kindness  or  omnipotence  is  to  be 
doubted  therefore. 

We  cannot  reason  of  these  things.  But  this  I 
know — and  this  may  by  all  men  be  known — that 
no  good  or  lovely  thing  exists  in  this  world  with- 
out its  correspondent  darkness;  and  that  the 
universe  presents  itself  continually  to  mankind 


132  NATURE. 

under  the  stern  aspect  of  warning,  or  of  choice, 
the  good  and  the  evil  set  on  the  right  hand  and 
the  left. 

And  in  this  mountain  gloom,  which  weighs  so 
strongly  upon  the  human  heart  that  in  all  time 
hitherto,  as  we  have  seen,  the  hill  defiles  have 
been  either  avoided  in  terror  or  inhabited  in 
penance,  there  is  but  the  fulfilment  of  the  uni- 
versal law,  that  where  the  beauty  and  wisdom 
of  the  Divine  working  are  most  manifested,  there 
also  are  manifested  most  clearly  the  terror  of 
God's  wrath,  and  inevitableness  of  His  power. 

Nor  is  this  gloom  less  wonderful  so  far  as  it 
bears  witness  to  the  error  of  human  choice, 
even  when  the  nature  of  good  and  evil  is  most 
definitely  set  before  it.  The  trees  of  Paradise 
were  fair;  but  our  first  parents  hid  themselves 
from  God  "  in  medio  ligni  Paradisi," — in  the 
midst  of  the  trees  of  the  garden.  The  hills  were 
ordained  for  the  help  of  man;  but,  instead  of 
raising  his  eyes  to  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh 
his  help,  he  does  his  idol  sacrifice  "  upon  every 
high  hill  and  under  every  green  tree."  The 
mountain  of  the  Lord's  house  is  established 
above  the  hills;  but  Nadab  and  Abihu  shall  see 
under  His  feet  the  body  of  heaven  in  his  clear- 
ness, yet  go  down  to  kindle  the  censer  against 
their  own  souls.  And  so  to  the  end  of  time  it 
will  be;  to  the  end,  that  cry  will  still  be  heard 


MOUNTAINS.  133 

along  the  Alpine  winds,  "  Hear,  of  ye  mountains, 
the  Lord's  controversy  !"  Still,  their  gulfs  of 
thawless  ice,  and  unretarded  roar  of  tormented 
waves,  and  deathful  falls  of  fruitless  waste  and 
unredeemed  decay,  must  be  the  image  of  the 
souls  of  those  who  have  chosen  the  darkness, 
and  whose  cry  shall  be  to  the  mountains  to  fall 
on  them,  and  to  the  hills  to  cover  them;  and 
still,  to  the  end  of  time,  the  clear  waters  of  the 
unfailing  springs,  and  the  white  pasture-lilies  in 
their  clothed  multitude,  and  the  abiding  of  the 
burning  peaks  in  their  nearness  to  the  opened 
heaven,  shall  be  the  types,  and  the  blessings,  of 
those  who  have  chosen  light,  and  of  whom  it  is 
written,  "  The  mountains  shall  bring  peace 
to  the  people,  and  the  little  hills,  righteous- 
ness." 

How  were  the  gigantic  fields  of  shattered 
marble  conveyed  from  the  ledges  which  were  to 
remain  exposed  ?  No  signs  of  violence  are  found 
on  these  ledges;  what  marks  there  are,  the  rain 
and  natural  decay  have  softly  traced  through  a 
long  series  of  years.  Those  very  time-marks 
may  have  indeed  effaced  mere  superficial  ap- 
pearances of  convulsion;  but  could  they  have 
effaced  all  evidence  of  the  action  of  such  floods 
as  would  have  been  necessary  to  carry  bodily 
away  the  whole  ruin  of  a  block  of  marble  leagues 
in  length  and  breadth,  and  a  quarter  of  a  mile 


1 34  NA  TURE. 

thick  ?     Ponder  over  the  intense  marvellousness 
of  this. 

And  yet  no  trace  of  the  means  by  which  all 
this  was  effected  is  left.  The  rock  stands  forth 
in  its  white  and  rugged  mystery,  as  if  its  peak 
had  been  born  out  of  the  blue  sky.  The  strength 
that  raised  it,  and  the  sea  that  wrought  upon  it, 
have  passed  away,  and  left  no  sign;  and  we  have 
no  words  wherein  to  describe  their  departure,  no 
thoughts  to  form  about  their  action,  than  those 
of  the  perpetual  and  unsatisfied  interrogation, — 

"  What  ailed  thee,  O  thou  sea,  that  thou  fleddest  ? 
And  ye  mountains,  that  ye  skipped  like  lambs  ?" 

As  we  pass  beneath  the  hills  which  have  been 
shaken  by  earthquake  and  torn  by  convulsion, 
we  find  that  periods  of  perfect  repose  succeeded 
those  of  destruction.  The  pools  of  calm  water 
lie  clear  beneath  their  fallen  rocks,  the  water- 
lilies  gleam,  and  the  reeds  whisper  among  their 
shadows;  the  village  rises  again  over  the  for- 
gotten graves,  and  its  church-tower,  white  through 
the  storm-twilight,  proclaims  a  renewed  appeal 
to  His  protection  in  whose  hand  "  are  all  the 
corners  of  the  earth,  and  the  strength  of  the  hills 
is  His  also."  There  is  no  loveliness  of  Alpine 
valley  that  does  not  teach  the  same  lesson.  It 
is  just  where  "  the  mountain  falling  cometh  to 
naught,  and  the  rock  is  removed  out  of  his  place," 


MOUNTAINS.  135 

that,  in  process  of  years,  the  fairest  meadows 
bloom  between  the  fragments,  the  clearest  rivu- 
lets murmur  from  their  crevices  among  the  flow- 
ers, and  the  clustered  cottages,  each  sheltered 
beneath  some  strength  of  mossy  stone,  now  to 
be  removed  no  more,  and  with  their  pastured 
flocks  around  them,  safe  from  the  eagle's  stoop 
and  the  wolf's  ravin,  have  written  upon  their 
fronts,  in  simple  words,  the  mountaineer's  faith 
in  the  ancient  promise — 

"  Neither  shalt  thou  be  afraid  of  destruction 
when  it  cometh; 

"  For  thou  shalt  be  in  league  with  the  Stones 
of  the  Field;  and  the  beasts  of  the  field  shall  be 
at  peace  with  thee." 

The  idea  of  retirement  from  the  world  for  the 
sake  of  self-mortification,  of  combat  with  de- 
mons, or  communion  with  angels,  and  with  their 
king, — authoritatively  commended  as  it  was  to  all 
men  by  the  continual  practice  of  Christ  himself, 
— gave  to  all  mountain  solitude  at  once  a  sanc- 
tity and  a  terror,  in  the  mediaeval  mind,  which 
were  altogether  different  from  anything  that  it 
had  possessed  in  the  un-Christian  periods.  On 
the  one  side,  there  was  an  idea  of  sanctity  at- 
tached to  rocky  wilderness,  because  it  had  al- 
ways been  among  hills  that  the  Deity  had  mani- 
fested himself  most  intimately  to  men,  and   to 


I  36  NA  TURE. 

the  hills  that  His  saints  had  nearly  always  re- 
tired for  meditation,  for  especial  communion 
with  Him,  and  to  prepare  for  death.  Men  ac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  Moses,  alone  at 
Horeb,  or  with  Israel  at  Sinai, — of  Elijah  by 
the  brook  Cherith,  and  in  the  Horeb  cave;  of 
the  deaths  of  Moses  and  Aaron  on  Hor  and 
Nebo;  of  the  preparation  of  Jephthah's  daugh- 
ter for  her  death  among  the  Judea  Mountains; 
of  the  continual  retirement  of  Christ  himself  to 
the  mountains  for  prayer,  His  temptation  in  the 
desert  of  the  Dead  Sea,  His  sermon  on  the  hills 
of  Capernaum,  His  transfiguration  on  the  crest 
of  Tabor,  and  his  evening  and  morning  walk 
over  Olivet  for  the  four  or  five  days  preceding 
His  crucifixion, — were  not  likely  to  look  with 
irreverent  or  unloving  eyes  upon  the  blue  hills 
that  girded  their  golden  horizon,  or  drew  upon 
them  the  mysterious  clouds  out  of  the  height  of 
the  darker  heaven.  But  with  this  impression  of 
their  greater  sanctity  was  involved  also  that  of 
a  peculiar  terror.  In  all  this, — their  haunting 
by  the  memories  of  prophets,  the  presences  of 
angels,  and  the  everlasting  thoughts  and  words 
of  the  Redeemer, — the  mountain  ranges  seemed 
separated  from  the  active  world,  and  only  to  be 
fitly  approached  by  hearts  which  were  condem- 
natory of  it.  Just  in  so  much  as  it  appeared 
necessary  for  the  noblest  men  to  retire  to   the 


MOUNTAINS.  137 

hill-recesses  before  their  missions  could  be  ac- 
complished or  their  spirits  perfected,  in  so  far 
did  the  daily  world  seem  by  comparison  to  be 
pronounced  profane  and  dangerous;  and  to 
those  who  loved  that  world,  and  its  work,  the 
mountains  were  thus  voiceful  with  perpetual  re- 
buke, and  necessarily  contemplated  with  a  kind 
of  pain  and  fear,  such  as  a  man  engrossed  by 
vanity  feels  at  being  by  some  accident  forced 
to  hear  a  startling  sermon,  or  to  assist  at  a  fun- 
eral service.  Every  association  of  this  kind  was 
deepened  by  the  practice  and  precept  of  the 
time ;  and  thousands  of  hearts,  which  might 
otherwise  have  felt  that  there  was  loveliness  in 
the  wild  landscape,  shrank  from  it  in  dread,  be- 
cause they  knew  the  monk  retired  to  it  for  pen- 
ance, and  the  hermit  for  contemplation. 

Mark  the  significance  of  the  earliest  mention 
of  mountains  in  the  Mosaic  books;  at  least,  of 
those  in  which  some  Divine  appointment  or 
command  is  stated  respecting  them.  They  are 
first  brought  before  us  as  refuges  for  God's  peo- 
ple from  the  two  judgments  of  water  and  fire. 
The  ark  rests  upon  the  "  mountains  of  Ararat;" 
and  man,  having  passed  through  that  great  bap- 
tism unto  death,  kneels  upon  the  earth  first 
where  it  is  nearest  heaven,  and  mingles  with  the 
mountain  clouds  the  smoke   of   his   sacrifice  of 


138  NATURE. 

thanksgiving.  Again:  from  the  midst  of  the 
first  judgment  of  fire,  the  command  of  the 
Deity  to  his  servant  is,  "  Escape  to  the  moun- 
tain;" and  the  morbid  fear  of  the  hills,  which 
fills  any  human  mind  after  long  stay  in  places 
of  luxury  and  sin,  is  strangely  marked  in  Lot's 
complaining  reply:  "  I  cannot  escape  to  the 
mountain,  lest  some  evil  take  me."  The  third 
mention,  in  way  of  ordinance,  is  a  far  more  sol- 
emn one:  "  Abraham  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  saw 
the  place  afar  off."  "The  Place,"  the  Moun- 
tain of  Myrrh,  or  of  bitterness,  chosen  to  fulfil 
to  all  the  seed  of  Abraham,  far  off  and  near,  the 
inner  meaning  of  promise  regarded  in  that  view: 
"  I  will  lift  up  my  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from 
whence  cometh  mine  help." 

And  the  fourth  is  the  delivery  of  the  law  on 
Sinai. 

It  seemed,  then,  to  the  monks,  that  the  moun- 
tains were  appointed  by  their  Maker  to  be  to 
man  refuges  from  Judgment,  signs  of  Redemp- 
tion, and  altars  of  Sanctification  and  obedience; 
and  they  saw  them  afterwards  connected  in  the 
manner  the  most  touching  and  gracious,  with 
the  death,  after  his  task  had  been  accomplished, 
of  the  first  anointed  Priest;  the  death,  in  like 
manner,  of  the  first  inspired  Lawgiver;  and, 
lastly,  with  the  assumption  of  his  office  by  the 
Eternal  Priest,  Lawgiver,  and  Saviour. 


MOUNTAINS.  139 

Observe  the  connection  of  these  three  events. 
Although  the  time  of  the  deaths  of  Aaron  and 
Moses  was  hastened  by  God's  displeasure,  we 
have  not,  it  seems  to  me,  the  slightest  warrant 
for  concluding  that  the  manner  of  their  deaths 
was  intended  to  be  grievous  or  dishonorable  to 
them.  Far  from  this:  it  cannot,  I  think,  be 
doubted  that  in  the  denial  of  the  permission  to 
enter  the  Promised  Land,  the  whole  punishment 
of  their  sins  was  included;  and  that  as  far  as  re- 
garded the  manner  of  their  deaths,  it  must  have 
been  appointed  for  them  by  their  Master  in  all 
tenderness  and  love;  and  with  full  purpose  of 
ennobling  the  close  of  their  service  upon  the 
earth.  It  might  have  seemed  to  us  more  honor- 
able that  both  should  have  been  permitted  to 
die  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Tabernacle,  the 
congregation  of  Israel  watching  by  their  side; 
and  all  whom  they  loved  gathered  together  to 
receive  the  last  message  from  the  lips  of  the 
meek  lawgiver,  and  the  last  blessing  from  the 
prayer  of  the  anointed  priest.  But  it  was  not 
thus  that  they  were  permitted  to  die.  Try  to 
realize  that  going  forth  of  Aaron  from  the  midst 
of  the  congregation.  He  who  had  so  often  done 
sacrifice  for  their  sins,  going  forth  now  to  offer 
up  his  own  spirit.  He  who  had  stood  among 
them,  between  the  dead  and  the  living,  and  had 
seen  the  eyes  of  all  that  great  multitude  turned 


I40  NATURE. 

to  him,  that  by  his  intercession  their  breath 
might  yet  be  drawn  a  moment  more,  going  forth 
now  to  meet  the  Angel  of  Death  face  to  face, 
and  deliver  himself  into  his  hand.  Try  if  you 
cannot  walk,  in  thought,  with  those  two  broth- 
ers, and  the  son,  as  they  passed  the  outmost 
tents  of  Israel,  and  turned,  while  yet  the  dew 
lay  round  about  the  camp,  towards  the  slopes  of 
Mount  Hor;  talking  together  for  the  last  time, 
as  step  by  step,  they  felt  the  steeper  rising  of 
the  rocks,  and  hour  after  hour,  beneath  the  as- 
cending sun,  the  horizon  grew  broader  as  they 
climbed,  and  all  the  folded  hills  of  Idumea,  one 
by  one  subdued,  showed  amidst  their  hollows  in 
the  haze  of  noon,  the  windings  of  that  long  des- 
ert journey,  now  at  last  to  close.  But  who  shall 
enter  into  the  thoughts  of  the  High  Priest,  as 
his  eye  followed  those  paths  of  ancient  pilgrim- 
age; and,  through  the  silence  of  the  arid  and 
endless  hills,  stretching  even  to  the  dim  peak  of 
Sinai,  the  whole  history  of  those  forty  years  was 
unfolded  before  him,  and  the  mystery  of  his  own 
ministries  revealed  to  him;  and  that  other  Holy 
of  Holies,  of  which  the  mountain  peaks  were  the 
altars,  and  the  mountain  clouds  the  veil,  the 
firmament  of  his  Father's  dwelling,  opened  to 
him  still  more  brightly  and  infinitely  as  he  drew 
nearer  his  death;  until  at  last,  on  the  shadeless 
summit, — from  him  on  whom  sin  was  to  be  laid 


MOUNTAINS.  14 r 

no  more — from  him,  on  whose  heart  the  names 
of  sinful  nations  were  to  press  their  graven  fire 
no  longer, — the  brother  and  the  son  took  breast- 
plate and  ephod,  and  left  him  to  his  rest. 

There  is  indeed  a  secretness  in  this  calm  faith 
and  deep  restraint  of  sorrow,  into  which  it  is 
difficult  for  us  to  enter;  but  the  death  of  Moses 
himself  is  more  easily  to  be  conceived,  and  had 
in  it  circumstances  still  more  touching,  as  far  as 
regards  the  influence  of  the  external  scene. 
For  forty  years  Moses  had  not  been  alone.  The 
care  and  burden  of  all  the  people,  the  weight 
of  their  woe,  and  guilt,  and  death,  had  been 
upon  him  continually.  The  multitude  had  been 
laid  upon  him  as  if  he  had  conceived  them; 
their  tears  had  been  his  meat,  night  and  day, 
until  he  had  felt  as  if  God  had  withdrawn  His 
favor  from  him,  and  he  had  prayed  that  he  might 
be  slain,  and  not  see  his  wretchedness.*  And 
now,  at  last,  the  command  came,  "  Get  thee  up 
into  this  mountain."  The  weary  hands  that  had 
been  [so  long  stayed  up  against  the  enemies  of 
Israel,  might  lean  again  upon  the  shepherd's 
staff,  and  fold  themselves  for  the  shepherd's 
prayer — for  the  shepherd's  slumber.  Not  strange 
to  his  feet,  though  forty  years  unknown,  the 
roughness   of   the   bare    mountain-path,    as   he 

*  Numbers  xi.  12, 15. 


142  NATURE. 

climbed  from  ledge  to  ledge  of  Abarim;  not 
strange  to  his  aged  eyes  the  scattered  clusters  of 
the  mountain  herbage,  and  the  broken  shadows 
of  the  cliffs,  indented  far  across  the  silence  of 
uninhabited  ravines;  scenes  such  as  those  among 
which,  with  none,  as  now,  beside  him  but  God, 
he  had  led  his  flocks  so  often;  and  which  he  had 
left,  how  painfully!  taking  upon  him  the  ap- 
pointed power,  to  make  of  the  fenced  city  a 
wilderness,  and  to  fill  the  desert  with  songs  of 
deliverance.  It  was  not  to  embitter  the  last 
hours  of  his  life  that  God  restored  to  him,  for  a 
day,  the  beloved  solitudes  he  had  lost;  and 
breathed  the  peace  of  the  perpetual  hills  around 
him,  and  cast  the  world  in  which  he  had  labored 
and  sinned  far  beneath  his  feet,  in  that  mist  of 
dying  blue; — all  sin,  all  wandering,  soon  to  be 
forgotten  for  ever;  the  Dead  Sea — a  type  of 
God's  anger  understood  by  him,  of  all  men, 
most  clearly,  who  had  seen  the  earth  open  her 
mouth,  and  the  sea  his  depth,  to  overwhelm  the 
companies  of  those  who  contended  with  his 
Master — laid  waveless  beneath  him;  and  beyond 
it,  the  fair  hills  of  Judah,  and  the  soft  plains  and 
banks  of  Jordan,  purple  in  the  evening  light  as 
with  the  blood  of  redemption,  and  fading  in 
their  distant  fulness  into  mysteries  of  promise 
and  of  love.  There,  with  his  unabated  strength, 
his  undimmed  glance,  lying  down  upon  the  ut- 


MOUNTAINS,  143 

most  rocks,  with  angels  waiting  near  to  contend 
for  the  spoils  of  his  spirit,  he  put  off  his  earthly 
armor.  We  do  deep  reverence  to  his  companion 
prophet,  for  whom  the  chariot  of  fire  came  down 
from  heaven;  but  was  his  death  less  noble, 
whom  his  Lord  Himself  buried  in  the  vales  of 
Moab,  keeping,  in  the  secrets  of  the  eternal 
counsels,  the  knowledge  of  a  sepulchre,  from 
which  he  was  to  be  called,  in  the  fulness  of  time, 
to  talk  with  that  Lord  upon  Hermon,  of  the 
death  that  He  should  accomplish  at  Jerusalem? 
And  lastly,  let  us  turn  our  thoughts  for  a  few 
moments  to  the  cause  of  the  resurrection  of 
these  two  prophets.  We  are  all  of  us  too  much 
in  the  habit  of  passing  it  by,  as  a  thing  mystical 
and  inconceivable,  taking  place  in  the  life  of 
Christ  for  some  purpose  not  by  us  to  be  under- 
stood, or,  at  the  best,  merely  as  a  manifestation 
of  his  divinity  by  brightness  of  heavenly  light, 
and  the  ministering  of  the  spirits  of  the  dead, 
intended  to  strengthen  the  faith  of  His  three 
chosen  apostles.  And  in  this,  as  in  many  other 
events  recorded  by  the  Evangelists,  we  lose  half 
the  meaning  and  evade  the  practical  power  upon 
ourselves,  by  never  accepting  in  its  fulness  the 
idea  that  our  Lord  was  "perfect  man,"  "  tempted 
in  all  things  like  as  we  are."  Our  preachers  are 
continually  trying,  in  all  manner  of  subtle  ways, 
to  explain  the  union  of  the    Divinity  with  the 


144  NATURE. 

Manhood,  an  explanation  which  certainly  in- 
volves first  their  being  able  to  describe  the 
nature  of  Deity  itself,  or,  in  plain  words,  to  com- 
prehend God.  They  never  can  explain  in  any 
one  particular,  the  union  of  the  natures;  they 
only  succeed  in  weakening  the  faith  of  their 
hearers  as  to  the  entireness  of  either.  The 
thing  they  have  to  do  is  precisely  the  contrary 
to  this — to  insist  upon  the  entireness  of  both. 
We  never  think  of  Christ  enough  as  God,  never 
enough  as  Man;  the  instinctive  habit  of  our 
minds  being  always  to  miss  of  the  Divinity,  and 
the  reasoning  and  enforced  habit  to  miss  of  the 
Humanity.  We  are  afraid  to  harbor  in  our  own 
hearts,  or  to  utter  in  the  hearing  of  others,  any 
thought  of  our  Lord,  as  hungering,  tired,  sorrow- 
ful, having  a  human  soul,  a  human  will,  and 
affected  by  events  of  human  life  as  a  finite  crea- 
ture is;  and  yet  one  half  of  the  efficiency  of  His 
atonement,  and  the  whole  of  the  efficiency  of 
His  example,  depend  on  His  having  been  this  to 
the  full. 

Consider,  therefore,  the  Transfiguration  as  it 
relates  to  the  human  feelings  of  our  Lord.  It 
was  the  first  definite  preparation  for  His  death. 
He  had  foretold  it  to  His  disciples  six  days 
before;  then  takes  with  Him  the  three  chosen 
ones  into  "  an  high  mountain  apart."  From  an 
exceeding  high  mountain,  at  the  first  taking  on 


MOUNTAINS.  145 

Him  the  ministry  of  life,  He  had  beheld,  and 
rejected  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  and  their 
glory:  now,  oh  a  high  mountain,  He  takesupon 
Him  the  ministry  of  death.  Peter,  and  they 
that  were  with  him,  as  in  Gethsemane,  were 
heavy  with  sleep.  Christ's  work  had  to  be  done 
alone. 

The  tradition  is,  that  the  Mount  of  Trans- 
figuration was  the  summit  of  Tabor;  but  Tabor 
is  neither  a  high  mountain,  nor  was  it  in  any 
sense  a  mountain  " apart;'  being  in  those  years 
both  inhabited  and  fortified.  All  the  immedi- 
ately preceding  ministries  of  Christ  had  been  at 
Cesarea  Philippi.  There  is  no  mention  of  travel 
southward  in  the  six  days  that  intervened  be- 
tween the  warning  given  to  His  disciples,  and 
the  going  up  into  the  hill.  What  other  hill 
could  it  be  than  the  southward  slope  of  that 
goodly  mountain,  Hermon,  which  is  indeed  the 
centre  of  all  the  Promised  Land,  from  the  enter- 
ing in  of  Hamath  unto  the  river  of  Egypt;  the 
mount  of  fruitfulness,  from  which  the  springs 
of  Jordan  descended  to  the  valleys  of  Israel. 
Along  its  mighty  forest  avenues,  until  the  grass 
grew  fair  with  the  mountain  lilies  His  feet 
dashed  in  the  dew  of  Hermon,  He  must  have 
gone  to  pray  His  first  recorded  prayer  about 
death;  and  from  the  steep  of  it,  before  He 
knelt,  could  see   to  the   south  all  the  dwelling- 


I46  NATURE. 

place  of  the  people  that  had  sat  in  darkness,  and 
seen  the  great  light,  the  land  of  Zabulon  and  of 
Naphtali,  Galilee  of  the  nations; — could  see, 
even  with  His  human  sight,  the  gleam  of  that 
lake  by  Capernaum  and  Chorazin,  and  many  a 
place  loved  by  Him,  and  vainly  ministered  to, 
whose  house  was  now  left  unto  them  desolate; 
and,  chief  of  all,  far  in  the  utmost  blue,  the  hills 
above  Nazareth,  sloping  down  to  His  old  home: 
hills  on  which  yet  the  stones  lay  loose,  that  had 
been  taken  up  to  cast  at  Him,  when  He  left 
them  for  ever. 

"  And  as  he  prayed,  two  men  stood  by  him." 
Among  many  ways  in  which  we  miss  the  help 
and  hold  of  Scripture,  none  is  more  subtle  than 
our  habit  of  supposing  that,  even  as  man,  Christ 
was  free  from  the  Fear  of  Death.  How  could 
He  then  have  been  tempted  as  we  are  ?  since 
among  all  the  trials  of  the  earth,  none  spring 
from  the  dust  more  terrible  than  that  Fear.  It 
had  to  be  borne  by  Him  indeed,  in  a  unity, 
which  we  can  never  comprehend,  with  the  fore- 
knowledge of  victory, — as  His  sorrow  for  Laza- 
rus, with  the  consciousness  of  the  power  to 
restore  him;  but  it  had  to  be  borne,  and  that  in 
its  full  earthly  terror;  and  the  presence  of  it  is 
surely  marked  for  us  enough  by  the  rising  of 
those  two  at  His  side.  When,  in  the  desert,  he 
was  girding  himself  for  the  work  of  life,  angels 


MOUNTAINS.  147 

of  life  came  and  ministered  unto  Him;  now,  in 
the  fair  world,  when  He  is  girding  himself  for 
the  work  of  death,  the  ministrants  come  to  Him 
from  the  grave. 

But  from  the  grave  conquered.  One,  from 
that  tomb  under  Abarim,  which  his  own  hand 
had  sealed  so  long  ago;  the  other  from  the  rest 
into  which  he  had  entered,  without  seeing  cor- 
ruption. There  stood  by  Him  Moses  and  Elias, 
and  spake  of  his  decease. 

Then,  when  the  prayer  is  ended,  the  task  ac- 
cepted, first  since  the  star  paused  over  Him  at 
Bethlehem,  the  full  glory  falls  upon  Him  from 
heaven,  and  the  testimony  is  borne  to  his  ever- 
lasting Sonship  and  power.     "  Hear  ye  him." 

If,  in  their  remembrance  of  these  things,  and 
in  their  endeavor  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of 
their  Master,  religious  men  of  by-gone  days, 
closing  themselves  in  the  hill  solitudes,  forgot 
sometimes,  and  sometimes  feared,  the  duties  they 
owed  to  the  active  world,  we  may  perhaps  par- 
don them  more  easily  than  we  ought  to  pardon 
ourselves,  if  we  neither  seek  any  influence  for 
good  nor  submit  to  it  unsought,  in  scenes  to 
which  thus  all  the  men  whose  writings  we  re- 
ceive as  inspired,  together  with  their  Lord,  re- 
tired whenever  they  had  any  task  or  trial  laid 
upon  them  needing  more  than  their  usual  strength 
of  spirit.     Nor,  perhaps,  should  we  have  unprofit- 


I48  NATURE. 

ably  entered  into  the  mind  of  the  earlier  ages,  if 
among  our  other  thoughts,  as  we  watch  the 
chains  of  the  snowy  mountains  rise  on  the  hori- 
zon, we  should  sometimes  admit  the  memory  of 
the  hour  in  which  their  Creator,  among  their 
solitudes,  entered  on  His  travail  for  the  salva- 
tion of  our  race;  and  indulge  the  dream,  that  as 
the  flaming  and  trembling  mountains  of  the 
earth  seem  to  be  the  monuments  of  the  manifest- 
ing of  His  terror  on  Sinai, — these  pure  and  white 
hills,  near  to  the  heaven,  and  sources  of  all  good 
to  the  earth,  are  the  appointed  memorials  of  that 
Light  of  His  Mercy,  that  fell,  snow-like,  on  the 
Mount  of  Transfiguration. 


TREES. 


In  speaking  of  trees  generally,  be  it  observed, 
when  I  say  all  trees  I  mean  only  those  ordinary 
forest  or  copse  trees  of  Europe,  which  are  the 
chief  subjects  of  the  landscape  painter.  I  do  not 
mean  to  include  every  kind  of  foliage  which  by 
any  accident  can  find  its  way  into  a  picture,  but 
the  ordinary  trees  of  Europe, — oak,  elm,  ash, 
hazel,  willow,  birch,  beech,  poplar,  chestnut,  pine, 
mulberry,  olive,  ilex,  carubbe,  and  such  others. 
I  do  not  purpose  to  examine  the  characteristics 


TREES.  149 

of  each  tree;  it  will  be  enough  to  observe  the 
laws  common  to  all.  First,  then,  neither  the 
stems  nor  the-  boughs  of  any  of  the  above  trees 
taper,  except  where  they  fork.  Wherever  a  stem 
sends  off  a  branch,  cr  a  branch  a  lesser  bough, 
or  a  lesser  bough  a  bud,  the  stem  or  the  branch 
is,  on  the  instant,  less  in  diameter  by  the  exact 
quantity  of  the  branch  or  the  bough  they  have 
sent  off,  and  they  remain  of  the  same  diameter; 
or  if  there  be  any  change,  rather  increase  than 
diminish  until  they  send  off  another  branch  or 
bough.  This  law  is  imperative  and  without  ex- 
ception; no  bough,  nor  stem,  nor  twig,  ever 
tapering  or  becoming  narrower  towards  its  ex- 
tremity by  a  hairbreadth,  save  where  it  parts 
with  some  portion  of  its  substance  at  a  fork  or 
bud,  so  that  if  all  the  twigs  and  sprays  at  the  top 
and  sides  of  the  tree,  which  are,  and  have  beat, 
could  be  united  without  loss  of  space,  they  would 
form  a  round  log  of  the  diameter  of  the  trunk 
from  which  they  spring. 

But  as  the  trunks  of  most  trees  send  off  twigs 
and  sprays  of  light  under  foliage,  of  which 
every  individual  fibre  takes  precisely  its  own 
thickness  of  wood  from  the  parent  stem,  and  as 
many  of  these  drop  off,  leaving  nothing  but  a 
small  excrescence  to  record  their  existence,  there 
is  frequently  a  slight  and  delicate  appearance  of 
tapering  bestowed  on  the  trunk  itself  ;  while  the 


1 50  NA  TURE. 

same  operation  takes  place  much  more  extensive- 
ly in  the  branches,  it  being  natural  to  almost  all 
trees  to  send  out  from  their  young  limbs  more 
wood  than  they  can  support,  which,  as  the  stem 
increases,  gets  contracted  at  the  point  of  inser- 
tion, so  as  to  check  the  flow  of  the  sap,  and  then 
dies  and  drops  off,  leaving  all  along  the  bough, 
first  on  one  side,  then  on  another,  a  series  of 
small  excrescences,  sufficient  to  account  for  a  de- 
gree of  tapering,  which  is  yet  so  very  slight,  that 
if  we  select  a  portion  of  a  branch  with  no  real 
fork  or  living  bough  to  divide  it  or  diminish  it, 
the  tapering  is  scarcely  to  be  detected  by  the 
eye  ;  and  if  we  select  a  portion  without  such  evi- 
dence of  past  ramification,  there  will  be  found 
none  whatsoever. 

But  nature  takes  great  care  and  pains  to  con- 
ceal this  uniformity  in  her  boughs.  They  are 
perpetually  parting  with  little  sprays  here  and 
there,  which  steal  away  their  substance  cautious- 
ly, and  where  the  eye  does  not  perceive  the 
theft,  until,  a  little  way  above,  it  feels  the  loss  ; 
and  in  the  upper  parts  of  the  tree,  the  ramifica- 
tions take  place  so  constantly  and  delicately, 
that  the  effect  upon  the  eye  is  precisely  the 
same  as  if  the  boughs  actually  tapered,  except 
here  and  there,  where  some  avaricious  one, 
greedy  of  substance,  runs  on  for  two  or  three 


TREES.  1 5  l 

yards  without  parting  with  anything,  and  becomes 
ungraceful  in  so  doing. 

Hence  we  see  that  although  boughs  may,  and 
must  be  represented  as  actually  tapering,  they 
must  only  be  so  when  they  are  sending  off  foli- 
age and  sprays,  and  when  they  are  at  such  a  dis- 
tance that  the  particular  forks  and  divisions  can- 
not be  evident  to  the  eye  ;  and  farther,  even  in 
such  circumstances  the  tapering  never  can  be 
sudden  or  rapid.  No  bough  ever,  with  appear- 
ance  of  smooth  tapering,  loses  more  than  one- 
tenth  of  its  diameter  in  a  length  of  ten  diameters. 
Any  greater  diminution  than  this  must  be  ac 
counted  for  by  visible  ramification,  and  must 
take  place  by  steps,  at  each  fork. 

One  of '  the  most  remarkable  characters  ot 
natural  leafage  is  the  constancy  with  which, 
while  the  leaves  are  arranged  on  the  spray  with 
exquisite  regularity,  that  regularity  is  modified 
in  their  actual  effect.  For  as  in  every  group  of 
leaves  some  are  seen  sideways,  forming  merely 
long  lines,  some  foreshortened,  some  crossing 
each  other,  every  one  differently  turned  and 
placed  from  all  the  others,  the  forms  of  the 
leaves,  though  in  themselves  similar,  give  rise  to 
a  thousand  strange  and  differing  forms  in  the 
group  ;  and  the  shadows  of  some,  passing  over 
the  others,  still  farther  disguise  and  confuse  the 
mass,  until  the  eye  can  distinguish  nothing  but  a 


152  NATURE. 

graceful  and  flexible  disorder  of  innumerable 
forms,  with  here  and  there  a  perfect  leaf  on  the 
extremity,  or  a  symmetrical  association  of  one 
or  two,  just  enough  to  mark  the  specific  charac- 
ter and  to  give  unity  and  grace,  but  never 
enough  to  repeat  in  one  group  what  was  done  in 
another — never  enough  to  prevent  the  eye  from 
feeling  that,  however  regular  and  mathematical 
may  be  the  structure  of  parts,  what  is  composed 
out  of  them  is  as  various  and  infinite  as  any  other 
part  of  nature.  Nor  does  this  take  place  in  gen- 
eral effect  only.  Break  off  an  elm  bough,  three 
feet  long,  in  full  leaf,  and  lay  it  on  the  table  be- 
fore you,  and  try  to  draw  it,  leaf  for  leaf.  It  is 
ten  to  one  if  in  the  whole  bough  (provided  you 
do  not  twist  it  about  as  you  work),  you  find  one 
form  of  a  leaf  exactly  like  another  ;  perhaps  you 
will  not  even  have  one  complete.  Every  leaf 
will  be  oblique,  or  foreshortened,  or  curled,  or 
crossed  by  another,  or  shaded  by  another,  or 
have  something  or  other  the  matter  with  it  ;  and 
though  the  whole  bough  will  look  graceful  and 
symmetrical,  you  will  scarcely  be  able  to  tell 
how  or  why  it  does  so,  since  there  is  not  one 
line  of  it  like  another. 

The  last  and  most  important  truth  to  be  ob- 
served respecting  trees,  is  that  their  boughs  al- 
ways, in  finely  grown  individuals,  bear  among 
themselves  such  a  ratio  of  length  as  to  describe 


TREES.  153 

with  their  extremities  a  symmetrical  curve,  con- 
stant for  each  species;  and  within  this  curve  all 
the  irregularities,  segments,  and  divisions  of  the 
tree  are  included,  each  bough  reaching  the  limit 
with  its  extremity,  but  not  passing  it.  When  a 
tree  is  perfectly  grown,  each  bough  starts  from 
the  trunk  with  just  so  much  wood  as,  allowing 
for  constant  ramification,  will  enable  it  to  reach 
the  terminal  line  ;  or  if  by  mistake,  it  start  with 
too  little,  it  will  proceed  without  ramifying  till 
within  a  distance  where  it  may  safely  divide  ;  if 
on  the  contrary  it  start  with  too  much,  it  will 
ramify  quickly  and  constantly  ;  or,  to  express 
the  real  operation  more  accurately,  each  bough, 
growing  on  so  as  to  keep  even  with  its  neigh- 
bors, takes  so  much  wood  from  the  trunk  as  is 
sufficient  to  enable  it  to  do  so,  more  or  less  in 
proportion  as  it  ramifies  fast  or  slowly.  In  badly 
grown  trees,  the  boughs  are  apt  to  fall  short  of 
the  curve,  or  at  least,  there  are  so  many  jags  and 
openings  that  its  symmetry  is  interrupted  ;  and 
in  young  trees,  the  impatience  of  the  upper 
shoots  frequently  breaks  the  line  ;  but  in  perfect 
and  mature  trees,  every  bough  does  its  duty 
completely,  and  the  line  of  curve  is  quite  filled 
up,  and  the  mass  within  it  unbroken,  so  that  the 
tree  assumes  the  shape  of  a  dome,  as  in  the  oak, 
or,  in  tall  trees,  of  a  pear,  with  the  stalk  down- 
most. 


I  54  MA  TURE. 

It  is  possible  among  plains,  in  the  species  of 
trees  which  properly  belong  to  them,  the  pop- 
lars of  Amiens,  for  instance,  to  obtain  a  serene 
simplicity  of  grace,  which,  as  I  said,  is  a  better 
help  to  the  study  of  gracefulness,  as  such,  than 
any  of  the  wilder  groupings  of  the  hills  ;  so  also, 
there  are  certain  conditions  of  symmetrical  lux- 
uriance developed  in  the  park  and  avenue,  rarely 
rivalled  in  their  way  among  mountains;  and  yet 
the  mountain  superiority  in  foliage  is,  on  the 
whole,  nearly  as  complete  as  it  is  in  water;  for 
exactly  as  there  are  some  expressions  in  the 
broad  reaches  of  a  navigable  lowland  river,  such 
as  the  Loire  or  Thames,  not,  in  their  way,  to  be 
matched  among  the  rock  rivers,  and  yet  for  all 
that  a  lowlander  cannot  be  said  to  have  truly  seen 
the  element  of  water  at*all;  so  even  in  his  rich- 
est parks  and  avenues  he  cannot  be  said  to  have 
truly  seen  trees.  For  the  resources  of  trees  are 
not  developed  until  they  have  difficulty  to  con- 
tend with;  neither  their  tenderness  of  brotherly 
love  and  harmony,  till  they  are  forced  to  choose 
their  ways  of  various  life  where  there  is  con- 
tracted room  for  them,  talking  to  each  other 
with  their  restrained  branches.  The  various 
action  of  trees  rooting  themselves  in  inhospita- 
ble rocks,  stooping  to  look  into  ravines,  hiding 
from  the  search  of  glacier  winds,  reaching  forth 
to  the  rays  of  rare  sunshine,  crowding  down  to- 


TREES,  155 

gether  to  drink  at  sweetest  streams,  climbing  hand 
in  hand  among  the  difficult  slopes,  opening  in 
sudden  dances  round  the  mossy  knolls,  gather- 
ing into  companies  at  rest  among  the  fragrant 
fields,  gliding  in  grave  procession  over  the 
heavenward  ridges, — nothing  of  this  can  be  con- 
ceived among  the  unvexed  and  unvaried  felici- 
ties of  the  lowland  forest:  while  to  all  these  direct 
sources  of  greater  beauty  are  added,  first  the 
power  of  redundance, — the  mere  quality  of  foli- 
age visible  in  the  folds  and  on  the  promontories 
of  a  single  Alp  being  greater  than  that  of  an  en- 
tire lowland  landscape  (unless  a  view  from  some 
cathedral  tower);  and  to  this  charm  of  redun- 
dance, that  of  clearer  visibility), — tree  after  tree 
being  constantly  shown  in  successive  height, 
one  behind  another,  instead  of  the  mere  tops 
and  flanks  of  masses,  as  in  the  plains;  and  the 
forms  of  multitudes  of  them  continually  defined 
against  the  clear  sky,  near  and  above,  or  against 
white  clouds  entangled  among  their  branches, 
instead  of  being  confused  in  dimness  of  distance. 

There  was  only  one  thing  belonging  to  hills 
that  Shakespere  seemed  to  feel  as  noble — the 
pine  tree,  and  that  was  because  he  had  seen  it 
in  Warwickshire,  clumps  of  pine  occasionlly  ris- 
ing on  little  sandstone  mounds,  as  at  the  place 
of  execution  of  Piers  Gaveston,  above  the  low- 


1 56  XA  TURE. 

land   woods.     He   touches   on   this   tree  fondly 

again  and  again. 

"As  rough, 
Their  royal  blood  enchafed,  as  the  rud'st  wind, 
That  by  his  top  doth  take  the  mountain  pine, 
And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale." 

' '  The  strong-based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  plucked  up 
The  pine  and  cedar." 

Where  note  his  observance  of  the  peculiar  hori- 
zontal roots  of  the  pine,  spurred  as  it  is  by  them 
like  the  claw  of  a  bird,  and  partly  propped,  as 
the  aiguilles  by  those  rock  promontories  at  their 
bases  which  I  have  always  called  their  spurs, 
this  observance  of  the  pine's  strength  and  ani- 
mal-like grasp  being  the  chief  reason  for  his 
choosing  it,  above  all  other  trees,  for  Ariel's 
prison.     Again : 

' '  You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise 
When  they  are  fretted  with  the  gusts  of  heaven." 

And  yet  again  : 

"  But  when,  from  under  this  terrestrial  ball, 
He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines." 

I  challenge  the  untravelled  English  reader  to 
tell  me  what  an  olive-tree  is  like  ? 

1  know  he  cannot  answer  my  challenge.     He 


TREES.  157 

has  no  more  idea  of  an  olive-tree  than  if  olives 
grew  only  in  the  fixed  stars.  Let  him  meditate 
a  little  on  this  one  fact,  and  consider  its  strange- 
ness, and  what  a  wilful  and  constant  closing  of 
the  eyes  to  the  most  important  truths  ii  indi- 
cates on  the  part  of  the  modern  artist.  Observe, 
a  want  of  perception,  not  of  science.  I  do  not 
want  painters  to  tell  me  any  scientific  facts 
about  olive-trees.  But  it  had  been  well  for  them 
to  have  felt  and  seen  the  olive-tree;  to  have 
loved  it  for  Christ's  sake,  partly  also  for  the 
helmed  Wisdom's  sake  which  was  to  the  heathen 
in  some  sort  as  that  nobler  Wisdom  which  stood 
at  God's  right  hand,  when  He  founded  the  earth 
and  established  the  heavens.  To  have  loved  it 
even  to  the  hoary  dimness  of  its  delicate  foliage, 
subdued  and  faint  of  hue,  as  if  the  ashes  of  the 
Gethsemane  agony  had  been  cast  upon  it  for 
ever;  and  to  have  traced,  line  for  line,  the 
gnarled  writhings  of  its  intricate  branches,  and 
the  pointed  fretwork  of  its  light  and  narrow 
leaves,  inlaid  on  the  blue  field  of  the  sky,  and 
the  small  rosy-white  stars  of  its  spring  blossom- 
ing, and  the  beads  of  sable  fruit  scattered  by 
autumn  along  its  topmost  boughs — the  right,  in 
Israel,  of  the  stranger,  the  fatherless,  and  the 
widow, — and,  more  than  all,  the  softness  of  the 
mantle,  silver  gray,  and  tender  like  the  down  on 
a  bird's  breast,  with  which,  far  away,  it  veils  the 


158  NATURE. 

undulation  of  the  mountains;  these  it  had  been 
well  for  them  to  have  seen  and  drawn,  whatever 
they  had  left  unstudied  in  the  gallery. 

The  Greek  delighted  in  the  grass  for  its  use- 
fulness ;  the  mediaeval,  as  also  we  moderns,  for 
its  color  and  beauty.  But  both  dwell  on  it  as 
the  first  element  of  the  lovely  landscape;  Dante 
thinks  the  righteous  spirits  of  the  heathen  enough 
comforted  in  Hades  by  having  even  the  image 
of  green  grass  put  beneath  their  feet ;  the  happy 
resting-place  in  Purgatory  has  no  other  delight 
than  its  grass  and  flowers  ;  and,  finally,  in  the 
terrestrial  paradise,  the  feet  of  Matilda  pause 
where  the  Lethe  stream  first  bends  the  blades  of 
grass.  Consider  a  little  what  a  depth  there  is 
in  this  great  instinct  of  the  human  race.  Gather 
a  single  blade  of  grass,  and  examine  for  a  minute, 
quietly,  its  narrow  sword-shaped  strip  of  fluted 
green.  Nothing,  as  it  seems  there,  of  notable 
goodness  or  beauty.  A  very  little  strength,  and 
a  very  little  tallness,  and  a  few  delicate  long 
lines  meeting  in  a  point, — not  a  perfect  point 
neither,  but  blunt  and  unfinished,  by  no  means 
a  creditable  or  apparently  much  cared  for  ex- 
ample of  Nature's  workmanship,  made,  as  it 
seems,  only  to  be  trodden  on  to-day,  and  to- 
morrow to  be  cast  into  the  oven;  and  a  little 
pale  and  hollow  stalk,  feeble  and  flaccid,  lead- 


GRASS.  159 

ing  down  to  the  dull  brown  fibres  of  roots.  And 
yet,  think  of  it  well,  and  judge  whether  of  all  the 
gorgeous  flowers  that  beam  in  summer  air,  and 
of  all  strong  and  goodly  trees,  pleasant  to  the 
eyes  and  good  for  food, — stately  palm  and  pine, 
strong  ash  and  oak,  scented  citron,  burdened 
vine, — there  be  any  by  man  so  deeply  loved,  by 
God  so  highly  graced,  as  that  narrow  point  of 
feeble  green.  It  seems  to  me  not  to  have  been 
without  a  peculiar  significance,  that  our  Lord, 
when  about  to  work  the  miracle  which,  of  all 
that  He  showed,  appears  to  have  been  felt  by 
the  multitude  as  the  most  impressive, — the  mira- 
cle of  the  loaves, — commanded  the  people  to  sit 
down  by  companies  "upon  the  green  grass." 
He  was  about  to  feed  them  with  the  principal 
produce  of  earth  and  the  sea,  the  simplest  repre- 
sentations of  the  food  of  mankind.  He  gave 
them  the  seed  of  the  herb;  He  bade  them  sit 
down  upon  the  herb  itself,  which  was  as  great  a 
gift,  in  its  fitness  for  their  joy  and  rest,  as  its 
perfect  fruit,  for  their  sustenance;  thus,  in  this 
single  order  and  act,  when  rightly  understood, 
indicating  for  evermore  how  the  Creator  had  en- 
trusted the  comfort,  consolation,  and  sustenance 
of  man,  to  the  simplest  and  most  despised  of  all 
the  leafy  families  of  the  earth.  And  well  does 
it  fulfil  its  mission.  Consider  what  we  owe 
merely  to  the  meadow  grass,  to  the  covering  of 


l60  NA  TURE. 

the  dark  ground  by  that  glorious  enamel,  by  the 
companies  of  those  soft,  and  countless,  and 
peaceful  spears.  The  fields  !  Follow  but  forth 
for  a  little  time  the  thoughts  of  all  that  we 
ought  to  recognize  in  those  words.  All  spring 
and  summer  is  in  them, — the  walks  by  silent, 
scented  paths, — the  rests  in  noonday  heat, — the 
joy  of  herds  and  flocks, — the  power  of  all  shep- 
herd life  and  meditation, — the  life  of  sunlight 
upon  the  world,  falling  in  emerald  streaks,  and 
falling  in  soft  blue  shadows,  where  else  it  would 
have  struck  upon  the  dark  mould,  or  scorching 
dust, — pastures  beside  the  pacing  brooks,  soft 
banks  and  knolls  of  lowly  hills, — thymy  slopes 
of  down  overlooked  by  the  blue  line  of  lifted 
sea, — crisp  lawns  all  dim  with  early  dew,  or 
smooth  in  evening  warmth  of  barred  sunshine, 
dinted  by  happy  feet,  and  softening  in  their  fall 
the  sound  of  loving  voices:  all  these  are  summed 
in  those  simple  words;  and  these  are  not  all. 
We  may  not  measure  to  the  full  the  depth  of  this 
heavenly  gift,  in  our  own  land;  though  still,  as  we 
think  of  it  longer,  the  infinite  of  that  meadow 
sweetness,  Shakspere's  peculiar  joy,  would  open 
on  us  more  and  more,  yet  we  have  it  but  in  part. 
Go  out,  in  the  spring  time,  among  the  meadows 
that  slope  from  the  shores  of  the  Swiss  lakes  to  the 
roots  of  their  lower  mountains.  There,  mingled 
with  the  taller  gentians  and  the  white  narcissus, 


GRASS.  l6l 

the  grass  grows  deep  and  free;  and  as  you  fol- 
low the  winding  mountain  paths,  beneath  arch- 
ing boughs  all- veiled  and  dim  with  blossom, — 
paths  that  for  ever  droop  and  rise  over  the 
green  banks  and  mounds  sweeping  down  in 
scented  undulation,  steep  to  the  blue  water, 
studded  here  and  there  with  new-mown  heaps, 
filling  all  the  air  with  fainter  sweetness, — look 
up  towards  the  higher  hills,  where  the  waves  of 
everlasting  green  roll  silently  into  their  long 
inlets  among  the  shadows  of  the  pines;  and  we 
may,  perhaps,  at  last  know  the  meaning  of  those 
quiet  words  of  the  147th  Psalm,  "  He  maketh 
grass  to  grow  upon  the  mountains." 

There  are  also  several  lessons  symbolically 
connected  with  this  subject,  which  we  must  not 
allow  to  escape  us.  Observe,  the  peculiar  char- 
acters of  the  grass,  which  adapt  it  especially  for 
the  service  of  man,  are  its  apparent  humility  and 
cheerfulness.  Its  humility,  in  that  it  seems 
created  only  for  lowest  service, — appointed  to 
be  trodden  on,  and  fed  upon.  Its  cheerfulness, 
in  that  it  seems  to  exult  under  all  kinds  of  vio- 
lence and  suffering.  You  roll  it,  and  it  is  strong- 
er the  next  day;  you  mow  it,  and  it  multiplies 
its  shoots,  as  if  it  were  grateful;  you  tread  upon 
it,  and  it  only  sends  up  richer  perfume.  Spring 
comes,  and  it  rejoices  with  all  the  earth, — glow- 
ing with  variegated  flame  of  flowers, — waving  in 


1 62  ATA  TURE. 

soft  depth  of  fruitful  strength.  Winter  comes, 
and  though  it  will  not  mock  its  fellow  plants  by 
growing  then,  it  will  not  pine  and  mourn,  and 
turn  colorless  or  leafless  as  they.  It  is  always 
green;  and  it  is  only  the  brighter  and  gayer  for 
the  hoar-frost. 

Now,  these  two  characters — of  humility,  and 
joy  under  trial — are  exactly  those  which  most 
definitely  distinguish  the  Christian  from  the 
Pagan  spirit.  Whatever  virtue  the  pagan  pos- 
sessed was  rooted  in  pride,  and  fruited  with  sor- 
row. It  began  in  the  elevation  of  his  own  na- 
ture; it  ended  but  in  the  "  verde  smalto" — the 
hopeless  green — of  the  Elysian  fields.  But  the 
Christian  virtue  is  rooted  in  self-debasement, 
and  strengthened  under  suffering  by  gladness  of 
hope.  And  remembering  this,  it  is  curious  to 
observe  how  utterly  without  gladness  the  Greek 
heart  appears  to  be  in  watching  the  flowering 
grass,  and  what  strange  discords  of  expression 
arise  sometimes  in  consequence.  Ther.e  is  one, 
recurring  once  or  twice  in  Homer,  which  has 
always  pained  me.  He  says,  "  the  Greek  army 
was  on  the  fields,  as  thick  as  flowers  in  the 
spring."  It  might  be  so  ;  but  flowers  in  spring 
time  are  not  the  image  by  which  Dante  would 
have  numbered  soldiers  on  their  path  of  battle. 
Dante  could  not  have  thought  of  the  flowering 
of  the   grass  but  as   associated  with  happiness. 


GRASS.  163 

There  is  a  still  deeper  significance  in  a  passage 
from  Homer,  describing  Ulysses  casting  himself 
down  on  the  rushes  and  the  corn-giving  land  at 
the  river  shore, — the  rushes  and  corn  being  to 
him  only  good  for  rest  and  sustenance, — when 
we  compare  it  with  that  in  which  Dante  tells  us 
he  was  ordered  to  descend  to  the  shore  of  the 
lake  as  he  entered  Purgatory,  to  gather  a  rush, 
and  gird  himself  with  it,  it  being  to  him  the 
emblem  not  only  of  rest,  but  of  humility  under 
chastisement,  the  rush  (or  reed)  being  the  only 
plant  which  can  grow  there; — "no  plant  which 
bears  leaves,  or  hardens  its  bark,  can  live  on  that 
shore,  because  it  does  not  yield  to  the  chastise- 
ment of  its  waves."  It  cannot  but  strike  the 
reader  singularly  how  deep  and  harmonious  a 
significance  runs  through  all  these  words  of 
Dante — how  every  syllable  of  them,  the  more 
we  penetrate  it,  becomes  a  seed  of  farther 
thought.  For,  follow  up  this  image  of  the  gird- 
ling with  the  reed,  under  trial,  and  see  to  whose 
feet  it  will  lead  us.  As  the  grass  of  the  earth, 
thought  of  as  the  herb  yielding  seed,  leads  us  to 
the  place  where  our  Lord  commanded  the  multi- 
tude to  sit  down  by  companies  upon  the  green 
grass;  so  the  grass  of  the  waters,  thought  of  as 
sustaining  itself  among  the  waters  of  affliction, 
leads  us  to  the  place  where  a  stem  of  it  was  put 
into  our  Lord's  hand  for  his  sceptre;  and  in  the 


1 64  NATURE. 

crown  of  thorns,  and  the  rod  of  reed,  was  fore- 
shown the  everlasting  truth  of  the  Christian 
ages — that  all  glory  was  to  be  begun  in  suffering, 
and  all  power  in  humility. 

Assembling  the  images  we  have  traced,  and 
adding  the  simplest  of  all,  from  Isaiah  xl.  6,  we 
find,  the  grass  and  flowers  are  types,  in  their 
passing,  of  the  passing  of  human  life,  and,  in 
their  excellence,  of  the  excellence  of  human  life; 
and  this  in  a  twofold  way;  first,  by  their  Benefi- 
cence, and  then,  by  their  endurance  : — the  grass 
of  the  earth,  in  giving  the  seed  of  corn,  and  in 
its  beauty  under  tread  of  foot  and  stroke  of 
scythe;  and  the  grass  of  the  waters,  in  giving  its 
freshness  for  our  rest,  and  in  its  bending  before 
the  wave.*  But  understood  in  the  broad  human 
and  Divine  sense,  the  "herb  yielding  seed "  (as 
opposed  to  the  fruit-tree  yielding  fruit)  includes 
a  third  family  of  plants,  and  fulfils  a  third  office 
to  the  human  race.  It  includes  the  great  family 
of  the  lints  and  flaxes,  and  fulfils  thus  the  three 
offices  of  giving  food,  raiment,  and  rest.  Fol- 
low out  this  fulfilment;  consider  the  association 
of  the  linen  garment  and  the  linen  embroidery, 
with  the  priestly  office,  and  the  furniture  of  the 

*  So  also  in  Isa.  xxxv.  7,  the  prevalence  of  righteous- 
ness and  peace  over  all  evil  is  thus  foretold  : 

"  In  the  habitation  of  dragons,  where  each  lay,  shall 
be  grass,  with  reeds  and  rushes." 


GRASS.  165 

tabernacle;  and  consider  how  the  rush  has  been, 
in  all  time,  the  first  natural  carpet  thrown  under 
the  human  foot.  Then  next  observe  the  three 
virtues  definitely  set  forth  by  the  three  families 
of  plants;  not  arbitrarily  or  fancifully  associated 
with  them,  but  in  all  the  three  cases  marked  for 
us  by  Scriptural  words  : 

1st.  Cheerfulness,  or  joyful  serenity;  in  the 
grass  for  food  and  beauty. — "  Consider  the  lilies 
of  the  field,  how  they  grow;  they  toil  not,  neither 
do  they  spin." 

2nd.  Humility ;  in  the  grass  for  rest. — "  A 
bruised  reed  shall  He  not  break." 

3rd.  Love;  in  the  grass  for  clothing  (because 
of  its  swift  kindling), — "  The  smoking  flax  shall 
He  not  quench." 

And  then,  finally,  observe  the  confirmation  of 
these  last  two  images  in,  I  suppose,  the  most 
important  prophecy,  relating  to  the  future  state 
of  the  Christian  Church,  which  occurs  in  the 
Old  Testament,  namely,  that  contained  in  the 
closing  chapters  of  Ezekiel.  The  measures  of 
the  Temple  of  God  are  to  be  taken  ;  and  be- 
cause it  is  only  by  charity  and  humility  that 
those  measures  ever  can  be  taken,  the  angel  has 
"  a  line  of  flax  in  his  hand,  and  a  measuring 
reed."  The  use  of  the  line  was  to  measure  the 
land,  and  of  the  reed  to  take  the  dimensions  of 
the  buildings;  so  the  buildings  of  the  church,  or 


1 66  NATURE. 

its  labors,  are  to  be  measured  by  humility,  and 
its  territory  or  land,  by  love. 

The  limits  of  the  Church  have,  indeed,  in  later 
days,  been  measured,  to  the  world's  sorrow,  by 
another  kind  of  flaxen  line,  burning  with  the 
fire  of  unholy  zeal,  not  with  that  of  Christian 
charity;  and  perhaps  the  best  lesson  which  we 
can  finally  take  to  ourselves,  in  leaving  these 
sweet  fields,  is  the  memory  that,  in  spite  of  all 
the  fettered  habits  of  thought  of  his  age,  this 
great  Dante,  this  inspired  exponent  of  what  lay 
deepest  at  the  heart  of  the  early  Church,  placed 
his  terrestrial  paradise  where  there  had  ceased 
to  be  fence  or  division,  and  where  the  grass  of 
the  earth  was  bowed  down,  in  unity  of  direc- 
tion, only  by  the  soft  waves  that  bore  with  them 
the  forgetfulness  of  evil. 


fllart  3. 
ARCHITECTURE. 


Every  man  has  at  some  time  of  his  life  personal  interest  in 
Architecture.  He  has  influence  on  the  design  of  some  public 
building;  or  he  has  to  buy,  or  build,  or  alter  his  own  house. 
It  signifies  less  whether  the  knowledge  of  other  arts  be  general 
or  not ;  men  may  live  without  buying  pictures  or  statues. 
They  must  do  mischief,  and  waste  their  money  if  they  do  not 
know  fww  to  turn  it  to  account. 


PART  III. 

ARCHITECTURE. 


ART. 

Architecture  (considered  as  a  fine  art)  is  the 
art  which  so  disposes  and  adorns  the  edifices 
raised  by  man  for  whatsoever  uses,  that  the 
sight  of  them  contributes  to  his  mental  health, 
power,  and  pleasure. 

Architecture  proper,  then,  naturally  arranges 
itself  under  five  heads: — 

Devotional;  including  all  buildings  raised  for 
God's  service  or  honor. 

Memorial;  including  both  monuments  and 
tombs. 

Civil;  including  every  edifice  raised  by  nations 
or  societies,  for  purposes  of  common  business  or 
pleasure. 

Military;  including  all  private  and  public 
architecture  of  defence. 

Domestic;  including  every  rank  and  kind  of 
dwelling-place. 

169 


170  ARCHITECTURE. 

Those  peculiar  aspects  which  belong  to  the 
first  of  the  arts,  I  have  endeavored  to  trace;  and 
since,  if  truly  stated,  they  must  necessarily  be, 
not  only  safeguards  against  error,  but  sources  of 
every  measure  of  success,  I  do  not  think  I  claim 
too  much  for  them  in  calling  them  the  Lamps 
of  Architecture. 

The  seven  Lamps  of  Architecture— 

i.  The  Lamp  of  Sacrifice. 

2.  The  Lamp  of  Truth. 

3.  The  Lamp  of  Power. 

4.  The  Lamp  of  Beauty. 

5.  The  Lamp  of  Life. 

6.  The  Lamp  of  Memory. 

7.  The  Lamp  of  Obedience. 

I.  The  Lamp  or  Spirit  of  Sacrifice  prompts  us 
to  the  offering  of  precious  things,  merely  because 
they  are  precious,  not  because  they  are  useful  or 
necessary.  Was  it  necessary  to  the  complete- 
ness, as  a  type,  of  the  Levitical  sacrifice,  or  to 
its  utility  as  an  explanation  of  divine  purposes, 
that  it  should  cost  anything  to  the  person  in 
whose  behalf  it  was  offered  ?  Costliness  was 
generally  a  condition  of  the  acceptableness  of  the 
sacrifice.  "  Neither  will  I  offer  unto  the  Lord 
my  God  of  that  which  did  cost  me  nothing." 
That  costliness,  therefore,  must  be  an  acceptable 
condition  in  all  human  offerings  at  all  times;  for 
if  it  was  pleasing  to   God  once,  it  must  please 


ART.  171 

Him    always,  unless  directly  forbidden  by  Him 
afterwards,  which  it  has  never  been. 

Was  the  glory  of  the  tabernacle  necessary  to 
set  forth  or  image  His  Divine  glory  to  the  minds 
of  His  people?  What!  purple  or  scarlet  neces- 
sary to  the  people  who  had  seen  the  great  river 
of  Egypt  run  scarlet  to  the  sea,  under  His  con- 
demnation ?  What !  golden  lamp  and  cherub 
necessary  for  those  who  had  seen  the  fires  of 
heaven  falling  like  a  mantle  on  Mount  Sinai,  and 
its  golden  courts  opened  to  receive  their  mortal 
lawgiver?  What!  silver  clasp  and  fillet  neces- 
sary when  they  had  seen  the  silver  waves  of  the 
Red  Sea  clasp  in  their  arched  hollows  the  corpses 
of  the  horse  and  his  rider  ?  Nay — not  so.  There 
was  but  one  reason,  and  that  an  eternal  one; 
that  as  the  covenant  that  He  made  with  man 
was  accompanied  with  some  external  sign  of  its 
continuance,  and  of  His  remembrance  of  it,  so 
the  acceptance  of  that  covenant  might  be 
marked  and  signified  by  use,  in  some  external 
sign  of  their  love  and  obedience,  and  surrender 
of  themselves  and  theirs  to  His  will;  and  that 
their  gratitude  to  Him,  and  continual  remem- 
brance of  Him,  might  have  at  once  their  expres- 
sion and  their  enduring  testimony  in  the  presen- 
tation to  Him,  not  only  of  the  firstlings  of  the 
herd  and  fold,  not  only  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth 
and  the  tithe  of  time,  but  of  all  treasures  of  wis- 


172  ARCHITECTURE. 

dom  and  beauty;  of  the  thought  that  invents, 
and  the  hand  that  labors;  of  wealth  of  wood, 
and  weight  of  stone;  of  the  strength  of  iron,  and 
of  the  light  of  gold. 

It  has  been  said — it  ought  always  to  be  said, 
for  it  is  true — that  a  better  and  more  honorable 
offering  is  made  to  our  Master  in  ministry  to  the 
poor,  in  extending  the  knowledge  of  His  name, 
in  the  practice  of  the  virtues  by  which  that  name 
is  hallowed,  than  in  material  presents  to  His 
temple.  Assuredly  it  is  so;  woe  to  all  who  think 
that  any  other  kind  or  manner  f  ooffering  may 
in  any  wise  take  the  place  of  these!  Do  the 
people  need  place  to  pray,  and  calls  to  hear  His 
word  ?  Then  it  is  no  time  for  smoothing  pillars 
or  carving  pulpits;  let  us  have  enough  first  of 
walls  and  roofs.  Do  the  people  need  teaching 
from  house  to  house,  and  bread  from  day  to  day  ? 
Then  they  are  deacons  and  ministers  we  want, 
not  architects.  I  insist  on  this,  I  plead  for  this; 
but  let  us  examine  ourselves,  and  see  if  this  be 
indeed  the  reason  for  our  backwardness  in  the 
lesser  work.  The  question  is  not  between  God's 
house  and  His  poor:  it  is  not  between  God's 
house  and  His  gospel.  It  is  between  God's 
house  and  ours.  Have  we  no  tesselated  colors 
on  our  floors  ?  no  frescoed  fancies  on  our  roofs  ? 
no  niched  statuary  in  our  corridors  ?  no  gilded 
furniture  in  our  chambers  ?  no  costly  stones  in 


ART.  If3 

our  cabinets  ?  Has  even  the  tithe  of  these  been 
offered  ?  They  are,  or  they  ought  to  be,  the 
signs  that  enough  has  been  devoted  to  the  great 
purposes  of  human  stewardship,  and  that  there 
remains  to  us  what  we  can  spend  in  luxury;  but 
there  is  a  greater  and  prouder  luxury  than  this 
selfish  one — that  of  bringing  a  portion  of  such 
things  as  these  into  sacred  service,  and  present- 
ing them  for  a  memorial  that  our  pleasure  as 
well  as  our  toil  has  been  hallowed  by  the  re- 
membrance of  Him  who  gave  both  the  strength 
and  the  reward.  And  until  this  has  been  done, 
I  do  not  see  how  suca  possessions  can  be  re- 
tained in  happiness.  I  do  not  understand  the 
feeling  which  would  arch  our  own  gates  and 
pave  our  own  thresholds,  and  leave  the  church 
with  its  narrow  door  and  foot-worn  sill;  the  feel- 
ing which  enriches  our  own  chambers  with  all 
manner  of  costliness,  and  endures  the  bare  wall 
and  mean  compass  of  the  temple. 

The  tenth  part  of  the  expense  which  is  sacri- 
ficed in  domestic  vanities,  would,  if  collectively 
offered  and  wisely  employed,  build  a  marble 
church  for  every  town  in  England;  such  a  church 
as  it  should  be  a  joy  and  a  blessing  even  to  pass 
near  in  our  daily  ways  and  walks,  and  as  it 
would  bring  the  light  into  the  eyes  to  see  from 
far,  lifting  its  fair  height  above  the  purple  crowd 
of  humble  roofs. 


174  ARCHITECTURE. 

I  have  said  for  every  town:  I  do  not  want  a 
marble  church  for  every  village;  nay,  I  do  not 
want  marble  churches  at  all  for  their  own  sakes, 
but  for  the  sake  of  the  spirit  that  v/ould  build 
them.  The  church  has  no  need  of  any  visible 
splendors;  her  power  is  independent  of  them, 
her  purity  is  in  some  degree  opposed  to  them. 
The  simplicity  of  a  pastoral  sanctuary  is  love- 
lier than  the  majesty  of  an  urban  temple;  and  it 
may  be  more  than  questioned  whether,  to  the 
people,  such  majesty  has  ever  been  the  source 
of  any  increase  of  effective  piety;  but  to  the 
builders  it  has  been,  and  must  ever  be.  It  is 
not  the  church  we  want,  but  the  sacrifice;  not 
the  emotion  of  admiration,  but  the  act  of  adora- 
tion; not  the  gift,  but  the  giving  (St.  John  xii.  5). 

God  never  forgets  any  work  or  labor  of  love; 
and  whatever  it  may  be  of  which  the  first  and 
best  portions  or  powers  have  been  presented  to 
Him,  He  will  multiply  and  increase  sevenfold. 
Therefore,  though  it  may  not  be  necessarily  the 
interest  of  religion  to  admit  the  service  of  the 
arts,  the  arts  will  never  flourish  till  they  have 
been  primarily  devoted  to  that  service — devoted 
both  by  architect  and  employer;  by  the  one  in 
scrupulous,  earnest,  affectionate  design;  by  the 
other  in  expenditure  at  least  more  frank,  at  least 
less  calculating  than  that  which  he  would  admit, 
in  the  indulgence  of  his 'own  private  feelings. 


THE   LAMP    OF    TRUTH.  17$ 


II. THE  LAMP  OF  TRUTH. 

There  are  some  faults  slight  in  the  sight  of 
love,  some  errors  slight  in  the  estimate  of  wis- 
dom; but  Truth  forgives  no  insult,  and  endures 
no  stain. 

I  would  have  the  Spirit  or  Lamp  of  Truth 
clear  in  the  hearts  of  our  artists  and  handicrafts- 
men, not  as  if  the  truthful  practice  of  handi- 
crafts could  far  advance  the  cause  of  Truth, 
but  because  I  would  fain  see  the  handicrafts 
themselves  urged  by  the  spurs  of  chivalry. 

We  may  not  be  able  to  command  good,  or 
beautiful,  or  inventive  architecture,  but  we  can 
command  an  honest  architecture:  the  meagre- 
ness  of  poverty  may  be  pardoned,  the  sternness 
of  utility  respected;  but  what  is  there  but  scorn 
for  the  meanness  of  deception  ? 

The  worth  of  a  diamond  is  simply  the  under- 
standing of  the  time  it  must  take  to  look  for  it 
before  it  is  found,  and  the  worth  of  an  ornament 
is  the  time  it  must  take  before  it  can  be  cut. 
I  suppose  that  hand-wrought  ornament  can  no 
more  be  generally  known  from  machine-work 
than  a  diamond  can  be  known  from  paste.  Yet 
exactly  as  a  woman  of  feeling  would  not  wear 
false  jewels,  so  would  a  builder  of  honor  disdain 


1 76  ARCHITECTURE. 

false  ornaments.  The  using  of  them  is  just  as 
downright  and  inexcusable  as  a  lie.  You  use 
that  which  pretends  to  a  worth  which  it  has  not; 
which  pretends  to  have  cost,  and  to  be,  what  it 
did  not,  and  is  not;  it  is  an  imposition,  a  vul- 
garity, an  impertinence,  and  a  sin.  Nobody 
wants  ornaments  in  this  world,  but  everybody 
wants  integrity.  All  the  fair  devices  that  ever 
were  fancied,  are  not  worth  a  lie. 

This  being  a  general  law,  there  are,  neverthe- 
less, certain  exceptions  respecting  particular 
substances  and  their  uses.  Thus  in  the  use  of 
brick;  since  that  is  known  to  be  originally 
moulded,  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
be  moulded  into  divers  forms.  It  will  never  be 
supposed  to  have  been  cut,  and  therefore  will 
cause  no  deception;  it  will  have  only  the  credit 
it  deserves. 


III. — THE  LAMP  OF  POWER. 

All  building  shows  man  either  as  gathering  or 
governing;  and  the  secrets  of  his  success  are 
his  knowing  what  to  gather,  and  how  to  rule. 

There  is  a  sympathy  in  the  forms  of  noble 
building,  with  what  is  most  sublime  in  natural 
things;  and  it  is  the  governing  Power,  directed 


THE   LAMP   OF  POWER.  IJ7 

by  this  sympathy,  whose  operation  I  shall  en- 
deavor to  trace. 

In  the  edifices  of  Man  there  should  be  found 
reverent  worship  and  following,  not  only  of  the 
spirit  which  rounds  the  pillars  of  the  forest,  and 
arches  the  vault  of  the  avenue — which  gives 
veining  to  the  leaf,  and  polish  to  the  shell,  and 
grace  to  every  pulse  that  agitates  animal  organi- 
zation,— but  of  that  also  which  upheaves  the 
pillars  of  the  earth,  and  builds  up  her  barren 
precipices  into  the  coldness  of  the  clouds,  and 
lifts  her  shadowy  cones  of  mountain  purple  into 
the  pale  arch  of  the  sky;  for  these,  and  other 
glories  more  than  these,  refuse  not  to  connect 
themselves  in  his  thoughts,  with  the  work  of  his 
own  hand;  the  gray  cliff  loses  not  its  nobleness 
when  it  reminds  us  of  some  Cyclopean  waste  of 
mural  stone;  the  pinnacles  of  the  rocky  pro- 
montory 'arrange  themselves,  undegraded,  into 
fantastic  semblances  of  fortress  towers;  and 
even  the  awful  cone  of  the  far-off  mountain  has 
a  melancholy  mixed  with  that  of  its  own  solitude, 
which  is  cast  from  the  images  of  nameless  tu- 
muli on  white  sea-shores,  and  of  the  heaps  of 
reedy  clay,  into  which  chambered  cities  melt  in 
their  mortality. 

Though  mere  size  will  not  ennoble  a  mean 
design,  yet  every  increase  of  magnitude  will  be- 
stow upon  it  a  certain  degree  of  nobleness;  so 


1 78  ARCHITECTURE. 

that  it  is  well  to  determine,  at  first,  whether  the 
building  is  to  be  markedly  beautiful,  or  marked- 
ly sublime. 

It  has  often  been  observed  that  a  building,  in 
order  to  show  its  magnitude,  must  be  seen  all 
at  once.  It  would  be  better  to  say,  that  it  must 
have  one  visible  bounding  line  from  top  to  bot- 
tom, and  from  end  to  end.  This  bounding  line 
from  top  to  bottom  may  be  inclined  inwards, 
and  the  mass,  therefore,  pyramidal;  or  vertical, 
and  the  mass  form  one  grand  cliff;  or  inclined 
outwards,  as  in  the  advancing  fronts  of  old 
houses,  and,  in  a  sort,  in  the  Greek  temple,  and 
all  buildings  with  heavy  cornices  or  heads.  I 
am  much  inclined,  myself,  to  love  the  true  verti- 
cal, or  the  vertical  with  a  solemn  frown  of  pro- 
jection. 

What  is  needful  in  the  setting  forth  of  magni- 
tude in  height,  is  right  also  in  the  marking  it  in 
area, — let  it  be  gathered  well  together.  What- 
ever infinity  of  fair  form  there  may  be  in  the 
maze  of  the  forest,  there  is  a  fairer  in  the  sur- 
face of  the  quiet  lake,  and  I  hardly  know  that 
association  of  shaft  or  tracery,  for  which  I  would 
exchange  the  warm  sleep  of  sunshine  on  some 
smooth,  broad,  human-like  front  of  marble. 
Nevertheless,  if  breadth  is  to  be  beautiful,  its 
substance  must  in  some  sort  be  beautiful. 

Positive  shade  is  a  more  necessary  and  more 


THE  LAMP    OF  POWER.  179 

sublime  thing  in  an  architect's  hands  than  in  a 
painter's.  After  size  and  weight  the  Power  of 
architecture  may  be  said  to  depend  on  the 
quantity  of  its  shadow.  As  the  great  poem  and 
the  great  fiction  generally  affect  us  most  by  the 
majesty  of  their  masses  of  shade,  and  cannot 
take  hold  upon  us  if  they  affect  a  continuance 
of  lyric  sprightliness,  but  must  be  serious  often, 
and  sometimes  melancholy,  else  they  do  not  ex- 
press the  truth  of  this  wild  world  of  ours;  so 
there  must  be,  in  this  magnificently  human  art 
of  architecture,  some  equivalent  expression  for 
the  trouble  and  wrath  of  life,  for  its  sorrow  and 
its  mystery;  and  this  it  can  only  give  by  depth 
or  diffusion  of  gloom,  by  the  frown  upon  its 
front,  and  the  shadow  of  its  recess.  So  that 
Rembrandtism  is  a  noble  manner  in  architecture, 
though  a  false  one  in  painting;  and  I  do  not 
believe  that  ever  any  building  was  truly  great, 
unless  it  had  mighty  masses,  vigorous  and  deep, 
of  shadow  mingled  with  its  surface.  And 
among  the  first  habits  that  a  young  architect 
should  learn,  is  that  of  thinking  in  shadow,  not 
looking  at  a  design  in  its  miserable  liny  skeleton, 
but  conceiving  it  as  it  will  be,  when  the  dawn 
lights  it,  and  the  dusk  leaves  it,  when  its  stones 
will  be  hot,  and  its  crannies  cool;  when  the 
lizards  will  bask  on  the  one,  and  the  birds  build 
in  the  other.     Let  him  design  with  the  sense  of 


l8o  ARCHITECTURE. 

cold  and  heat  upon  him;  let  him  cut  out  the 
shadows,  as  men  dig  wells  in  unwatered  plains; 
and  lead  along  the  lights,  as  a  founder  does  his 
hot  metal;  let  him  keep  the  full  command  of 
both,  and  see  that  he  knows  how  they  fall  and 
where  they  fade. 

Until  our  street  architecture  is  bettered,  until 
we  give  it  some  size  and  boldness,  until  we  give 
our  windows  recess  and  our  walls  thickness,  1 
know  not  how  we  can  blame  our  architects  for 
their  feebleness  in  more  important  works.  Their 
eyes  are  inured  to  narrowness  and  slightness; 
can  we  expect  them  at  a  word  to  conceive  and 
deal  with  breadth  and  solidity?  They  ought 
not  to  live  in  our  cities;  there  is  that  in  their 
miserable  walls  which  bricks  up  to  death  men's 
imaginations,  as  surely  as  ever  perished  forsworn 
men.  An  architect  should  live  as  little  in  cities 
as  a  painter.  Send  him  to  our  hills,  and  let  him 
study  there  what  nature  understands  by  a  but- 
tress, and  what  by  a  dome. 

We  have  sources  of  Power  in  the  imagery  of 
our  iron  coasts  and  azure  hills;  of  power  more 
pure,  nor  less  serene  than  that  of  the  hermit 
spirit  which  once  lighted  with  white  lines  of 
cloisters  the  glades  of  the  Alpine  pine,  and  raised 
into  ordered  spires  the  wild  rocks  of  the  Nor- 
man sea;  which  gave  to  the  temple  gate  the 
depth  and  darkness  of  Elijah's  Horeb  cave;  and 


THE  LAMP   OF  POWER.  l8l 

lifted,  out  of  the  populous  city,  gray  cliffs  of 
lonely  stone,  into  the  midst  of  sailing  birds  and 
silent  air. 

Do  not  think  you  can  have  good  architecture 
merely  by  paying  for  it.  It  is  only  by  active 
and  sympathetic  attention  to  the  domestic  and 
every-day-work  which  is  done  for  each  of  you, 
that  you  can  educate  either  yourselves  to  the 
feeling  or  your  builders  to  the  doing  of  what  is 
truly  great. 

Well  but,  you  will  answer,  you  cannot  feel 
interested  in  Architecture :  you  do  not  care 
about  and  cannot  care  about  it. 

You  think  within  yourselves,  "  it  is  not  right 
that  architecture  should  be  interesting.  It  is 
a  very  grand  thing  this  architecture,  but  essen- 
tially unentertaining.  It  is  its  duty  to  be  dull, 
it  is  monotonous  by  law:  it  cannot  be  correct 
and  yet  amusing." 

Believe  me,  it  is  not  so.  All  things  that  are 
worth  doing  in  art,"are  interesting  and  attractive 
when  they  are  done.  There  is  no  law  of  right 
which  consecrates  dulness.  The  proof  of  a 
thing's  being  right  is,  that  it  has  power  over  the 
heart,  that  it  excites  us,  wins  us,  or  helps  us. 

All  good  art  has  the  capacity  of  pleasing,  if 
people  will  attend  to  it;  there  is  no  law  against 
its    pleasing;  but    on    the    contrary,   something 


1 82  ARCHITECTURE. 

wrong  either  in  the  spectator  or  the  art  when  it 
ceases  to  please. 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  ?  We  cannot  make 
architects  of  ourselves."  Pardon  me,  you  can 
— and  you  ought.  Architecture  is  an  art  for  all 
men  to  learn,  because  all  are  concerned  with  it; 
and  it  is  so  simple,  that  there  is  no  excuse  for 
not  being  acquainted  with  its  primary  rules,  any 
more  than  for  ignorance  of  grammar  or  spelling, 
which  are  both  of  them  far  more  difficult  sci- 
ences. 

Far  less  trouble  than  is  necessary  to  learn  how 
to  play  chess,  or  whist,  or  goff,  tolerably, — far 
less  than  a  schoolboy  takes  to  win  the  meanest 
prize  of  the  passing  year,  would  acquaint  you 
with  all  the  main  principles  of  the  construction 
of  a  Gothic  cathedral,  and  I  believe  you  would 
hardly  find  the  study  less  amusing. 


IV. — THE    LAMP   OF    BEAUTY. 

The  value  of  Architecture  depends  on  two 
distinct  characters: — the  one,  the  impression  it 
receives  from  human  power,  the  other,  the  image 
it  bears  of  the  natural  creation. 

It  will  be  thought  that  I  have  somewhat  lim- 
ited the   elements   of   architectural   beauty  to 


THE  LAMP    OF  BEAUTY.  1 83 

imitative  forms.  I  do  not  mean  to  assert  that 
every  arrangement  of  line  is  directly  suggested 
by  a  natural  object;  but  that  all  beautiful  lines 
are  adaptations  of  those  which  are  commonest 
in  the  external  creation;  that  in  proportion  to 
the  richness  of  their  association,  the  resem- 
blance to  natural  work,  as  a  type  and  help,  must 
be  more  closely  attempted,  and  more  clearly 
seen;  and  that  beyond  a  certain  point,  and  that 
a  very  low  one,  man  cannot  advance  in  the  in- 
vention of  beauty,  without  directly  imitating 
natural  form. 

There  are  many  forms  of  so  called  decoration 
in  Architecture,  habitual,  and  received  there- 
fore with  approval,  or  at  all  events  without  any 
venture  at  expression  of  dislike,  which  I  have 
no  hesitation  in  asserting  to  be  not  ornament  at 
all,  but  to  be  ugly  things,  the  expense  of  which 
ought,  in  truth,  to  be  set  down  in  the  architect's 
contract,  as  "For  Monstrification."  I  believe 
that  we  regard  these  customary  deformities  with 
a  savage  complacency,  as  an  Indian  does  his 
flesh  patterns  and  paint — all  nations  being  in 
certain  degrees  and  senses  savage. 

I  suppose  there  is  no  conceivable  form  or 
grouping  of  forms  but  in  some  part  of  the  uni- 
verse an  example  of  it  may  be  found.  On  the 
shapes  which  in  the  every-day  world  are  familiar 
to  the  eyes  of  men,  God   has  stamped   those 


1 84  ARCHITECTURE. 

characters  of  beauty  which  He  has  made  it 
man's  nature  to  love;  while  in  certain  excep- 
tional  forms  He  has  shown  that  the  adoption 
of  the  others  was  not  a  matter  of  necessity,  but- 
part  of  the  adjusted  harmony  of  creation- 
Knowing  a  thing  to  be  frequent,  we  may  assume 
it  to  be  beautiful;  and  assume  that  which  is 
most  frequent  to  be  most  beautiful:  I  mean,  of 
course,  visibly  frequent;  for  the  forms  of  things 
which  are  hidden  in  caverns  of  the  earth,  or  in 
the  anatomy  of  animal*frames,  are  evidently  not 
intended  by  their  Maker  to  bear  the  habitual 
gaze  of  man.  And,  again,  by  frequency  I  mean 
that  limited  and  isolated  frequency  which  is 
characteristic  of  all  perfection,  as  a  rose  is  a 
common  flower,  but  yet  there  are  not  so  many 
roses  on  the  tree  as  there  are  leaves.  In  this 
respect  Nature  is  sparing  of  her  highest,  and 
lavish  of  her  less  beauty;  but  I  call  the  flower 
as  frequent  as  the  leaf,  because,  each  in  its  al- 
lotted quantity,  where  the  one  is,  there  will 
ordinarily  be  the  other. 

Architecture,  in  borrowing  the  objects  of 
Nature,  is  bound  to  place  them,  as  far  as  may 
be  in  her  power,  in  such  associations  as  may 
befit  and  express  their  origin.  She  is  not  to 
imitate  directly  the  natural  arrangement;  she  is 
not  to  carve  irregular  stems  of  ivy  up  her  columns 
to  account  for  the  leaves  at  the  top,  but  she  is 


THE   LAMP    OF  BEAUTY.  1 8$ 

nevertheless  to  place  her  most  exuberant  vege- 
table ornament  just  where  Nature  would  have 
placed  it,  and  to  give  some  indication  of  that 
radical  and  connected  structure  which  Nature 
would  have  given  it.  Thus,  the  Corinthian  cap- 
ital is  beautiful,  because  it  expands  under  the 
abacus  just  as  Nature  would  have  expanded  it; 
and  because  it  looks  as  if  the  leaves  had  one 
root,  though  that  root  is  unseen.  And  the  flam- 
boyant leaf-mouldings  are  beautiful,  because 
they  nestle  and  run  up  the  hollows,  and  fill  the 
angles,  and  clasp  the  shafts  which  natural  leaves 
would  have  delighted  to  fill  and  to  clasp.  They 
are  no  mere  cast  of  natural  leaves:  they  are 
counted,  orderly,  and  architectural;  but  they 
are  naturally,  and  therefore  beautifully  placed. 

What  is  the  right  place  for  architectural  or- 
nament? What  is  the  peculiar  treatment  of 
ornament  which  renders  it  architectural  ? 

Suppose  that  in  time  of  serious  occupation, 
of  stern  business,  a  companion  should  repeat  in 
our  ears,  continually,  some  favorite  passage  of 
poetry,  over  and  over  again  all  day  long.  We 
should  not  only  soon  be  utterly  sick  and  weary 
of  the  sound  of  it,  but  that  sound  would,  at  the 
end  of  the  day,  have  so  sunk  into  the  habit  of 
the  ear  that  the  entire  meaning  of  the  passage 
would  be  dead  to  us,  and  it  would  ever  thence- 
forward require  some  effort  to  fix  and  recover 


1 86  ARCHITECTURE. 

it.  The  music  of  it  would  not  meanwhile  have 
aided  the  business  in  hand,  while  its  own  de- 
lightfulness  would  thenceforward  be  in  a  meas- 
ure destroyed.  It  is  the  same  with  every  other 
form  of  definite  thought.  If  you  violently  press 
its  expression  to  the  senses,  at  times  when  the 
mind  is  otherwise  engaged,  that  expression  will 
be  ineffective  at  the  time,  and  will  have  its 
sharpness  and  clearness  destroyed  for  ever. 

Apply  this  to  expressions  of  thought  received 
by  the  eye.  Remember  that  the  eye  is  at  your 
mercy  more  than  the  ear.  "  The  eye  it  cannot 
choose  but  see."  Now,  if  you  present  lovely 
forms  to  it  when  it  cannot  call  the  mind  to  help 
it  in  its  work,  and  among  objects  of  vulgar  use 
and  unhappy  position,  you  will  neither  please 
the  eye  nor  elevate  the  vulgar  object.  But  you 
will  fill  and  weary  the]  eye  with  the  beautiful 
form.  It  will  never  be  of  much  use  to  you  any 
more — its  freshness  and  purity  are  gone. 

Hence  then  a  general  law,  of  singular  import- 
ance in  the  present  day,  a  law  of  common  sense 
not  to  decorate  things  belonging  to  purposes  of 
active  and  occupied  life.  Wherever  you  can 
rest,  there  decorate;  where  rest  is  forbidden,  so 
is  beauty.  You  must  not  mix  ornament  with 
business,  any  more  than  you  may  mix  play. 
Work  first,  and  then  rest.  Work  first,  and  then 
gaze,  but  do  not  use  golden  ploughshares,  nor 


THE  LAMP   OF  BEAUTY.  1 87 

bind  ledgers  in  enamel.  Do  not  thrash  with 
sculptured  flails;  nor  put  bas-reliefs  on  mill- 
stones. 

The  most  familiar  position  of  Greek  mould- 
ings is  in  these  days  on  shop-fronts — ornaments 
which  were  invented  to  adorn  temples  and  beau- 
tify king's  palaces.  There  is  not  the  smallest 
advantage  in  them  where  they  are.  Absolutely 
valueless — utterly  without  the  power  of  giving 
pleasure,  they  only  satiate  the  eye,  and  vulgarise 
their  own  forms.  It  is  curious,  and  it  says  little 
for  our  national  probity  on  the  one  hand,  or 
prudence  on  the  other,  to  see  the  whole  system 
of  our  street  decoration  based  on  the  idea  that 
people  must  be  baited  to  a  shop  as  moths  are  to 
a  candle. 

Must  not  beauty,  then,  it  will  be  asked,  be 
sought  for  in  the  forms  which  we  associate  with 
our  every-day  life?  Yes,  if  you  do  it  consist- 
ently, and  in  places  where  it  can  be  calmly  seen. 
Put  it  in  the  drawing-room,  not  into  the  work- 
shop; put  it  upon  domestic  furniture,  not  upon 
tools  of  handicraft.  All  men  have  sense  of  what 
is  right  in  this  manner,  if  they  would  only  use 
and  apply  that  sense. 

There  is  no  subject  of  street  ornament  so 
wisely  chosen  as  the  fountain,  where  it  is  a  foun- 
tain of  use  ;  for  it  is  just  there  that  perhaps  the 
happiest  pause  takes  place  in  the  labor  of  the 


1 88  ARCHITECTURE. 

day,  when  the  pitcher  is  rested  on  the  edge  of  it, 
and  the  breath  of  the  bearer  is  drawn  deeply, 
and  the  hair  swept  from  the  forehead,  and  the 
uprightness  of  the  form  declined  against  the 
marble  ledge,  and  the  sound  of  the  kind  word  or 
light  laugh  mixes  with  the  trickling  of  the  falling 
water,  heard  shriller  and  shriller  as  the  pitcher 
fills.  What  pause  is  so  sweet  as  that — so  full  of 
the  depth  of  ancient  days,  so  softened  with  the 
calm  of  pastoral  solitude  ? 

Proportion  and  Abstraction  are  the  two 
especial  marks  of  architectural  design  as  distin- 
guished from  all  other. 

Proportions  are  as  infinite  as  possible  airs  in 
music  ;  and  it  is  just  as  rational  an  attempt  to 
teach  a  young  architect  how  to  proportion  truly 
and  well  by  calculating  for  him  the  proportions 
of  fine  works,  as  it  would  be  to  teach  him  to 
compose  melodies  by  calculating  the  mathemati- 
cal relations  of  the  notes  in  Beethoven's  Adelaide 
or  Mozart's  Requiem.  The  man  who  has  eye 
and  intellect  will  invent  beautiful  proportions, 
and  cannot  help  it;  but  he  can  no  more  tell  us 
how  to  do  it  than  Wordsworth  could  tell  us  how 
to  write  a  sonnet,  or  than  Scott  could  have  told 
us  how  to  plan  a  romance. 

There  is  no  proportion  between  equal  things; 
they  can  have  symmetry  only,  and  symmetry 
without    proportion    is    not    composition.     To 


THE  LAMP   OF  BEAUTY.  1 89 

compose  is  to  arrange  unequal  things,  and  the 
first  thing  to  be  done  in  beginning  a  composition 
is  to  determine  which  is  to  be  the  principal 
thing.  "  Have  one  large  thing  and  several 
smaller  things,  or  one  principal  thing  and  several 
inferior  things,  and  bind  them  well  together." 
Proportion  is  between  three  terms  at  least. 

All  art  is  abstract  in  its  beginnings;  that  is  to 
say,  //  expresses  only  a  small  number  of  the  quali- 
ties of  the  thing  represented. 

The  form  of  a  tree  on  the  Ninevite  sculptures 
is  much  like  that  which,  some  twenty  years  ago, 
was  familiar  upon  samplers.  There  is  a  resem- 
blance between  the  work  of  a  great  nation,  in 
this  phase,  and  the  work  of  childhood  and 
ignorance. 

In  the  next  stage  of  art  there  is  a  condition  of 
strength,  in  which  the  abstraction  which  was 
begun  in  incapability  is  continued  in  free  will. 

"Greater  completion  marks  the  progress  of 
art,  absolute  completion  usually  its  decline." 

It  is  well  that  the  young  architect  should  be 
taught  to  think  of  imitative  ornament  as  of  the 
extreme  grace  of  language;  not  to  be  regarded 
at  first,  not  to  be  obtained  at  the  cost  of  purpose, 
meaning,  force,  or  conciseness,  yet,  indeed,  a 
perfection — the  least  of  all  perfections,  and  yet 
the  crowning  one  of  all, — one  which,  by  itself, 


I90  ARCHITECTURE. 

and  regarded  in  itself,  is  an  architectural  cox- 
combry, but  yet  is  the  sign  of  the  most  highly- 
trained  mind  and  power  when  it  is  associated 
with  others.  It  is  a  safe  manner  to  design  all 
things  at  first  in  severe  abstraction,  and  to  be 
prepared,  if  need  were,  to  carry  them  out  in  that 
form;  then  to  mark  the  parts  where  high  finish 
would  be  admissible. 

I  think  the  colors  of  architecture  should  be 
those  of  natural  stones,  partly  because  more 
durable,  but  also  because  more  perfect  and 
graceful. 

I  do  not  feel  able  to  speak  with  any  confi- 
dence respecting  the  touching  of  sculpture  with 
color.  I  would  only  note  one  point,  that  sculp- 
ture is  the  representation  of  an  idea,  while  archi- 
tecture is  itself  a  real  thing.  The  idea  may,  as 
I  think,  be  left  colorless,  and  colored  by  the 
beholder's  mind  ;  but  a  reality  ought  to  have 
reality  in  all  its  attributes;  its  color  should  be 
as  fixed  as  its  form. 

The  following  list  of  noble  characteristics 
occurs  more  or  less  in  different  buildings,  some 
in  one  and  some  in  another: — 

1.  Projection  towards  the  top.  2.  Breadth  of 
flat  surface.  3.  Square  compartments  of  that 
surface.  4.  Varied  and  visible  masonry.  5. 
Vigorous  depth  of  shadow,  exhibited  especially 
by  pierced   traceries.     6.  Varied  proportion   in 


THE   LAMP    OF  BEAUTY.  I9I 

ascent.  7.  Lateral  symmetry.  8.  Sculpture 
most  delicate  at  the  base.  9.  Enriched  quan- 
tity of  ornament  at  the  top.  10.  Sculpture 
abstract  in  inferior  ornaments  and  mouldings, 
complete  in  animal  forms,  both  to  be  executed 
in  white  marble,  n.  Vivid  color  introduced  in 
flat  geometrical  patterns,  and  obtained  by  the 
use  of  naturally  colored  stones. 

These  characteristics  all  together,  and  in  their 
highest  possible  relative  degrees,  exist,  as  far  as 
I  know,  only  in  one  building  in  the  world,  the 
Campanile  of  Giotto  at  Florence.  I  remember 
well  how,  when  a  boy,  I  used  to  despise  that 
Campanile,  and  think  it  meanly  smooth  and 
finished.  But  I  have  since  lived  beside  it  many 
a  day,  and  looked  out  upon  it  from  my  windows 
by  sunlight  and  moonlight,  and  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  how  profound  and  gloomy  appeared  to  me 
the  savageness  of  the  Northern  Gothic,  when  I 
afterwards  stood,  for  the  first  time,  beneath  the 
front  of  Salisbury  Cathedral. 

The  contrast  is  indeed  strange,  if  it  could  be 
quickly  felt,  between  the  rising  of  those  gray 
walls  out  of  their  quiet  swarded  space,  like  dark 
and  barren  rocks  out  of  a  green  lake,  with  their 
rude,  mouldering,  rough-grained  shafts,  and 
triple  lights,  without  tracery  or  other  ornament 
than  the  martins'  nests  in  the  height  of  them, 
and  that  bright,  smooth,  sunny  surface  of  glow- 


I92  ARCHITECTURE. 

ing  jasper,  those  spiral  shafts  and  fairy  traceries, 
so  white,  so  faint,  so  crystalline,  that  their  slight 
shapes  are  hardly  traced  in  darkness  on  the  pal- 
lor of  the  Eastern  sky,  that  serene  height  of 
mountain  alabaster,  colored  like  a  morning 
cloud,  and  chased  like  a  sea-shell.  And  if  this 
be,  as  I  believe  it,  the  model  and  mirror  of  per- 
fect architecture,  is  there  not  something  to  be 
learned  by  looking  back  to  the  early  life  of  him 
who  raised  it  ? 

I  said  that  the  Power  of  the  human  mind 
had  its  growth  in  the  Wilderness  ;  much  more 
must  the  love  and  the  conception  of  that  beauty, 
whose  every  line  and  hue  we  have  seen  to  be,  at 
the  best,  a  faded  image  of  God's  daily  work,  and 
an  arrested  ray  of  some  star  of  creation,  be  given 
chiefly  in  the  places  which  he  has  gladdened  by 
planting  there  the  fir  tree  and  the  pine.  Not 
within  the  walls  of  Florence,  but  among  the  far- 
away fields  of  her  lilies,  was  the  child  trained 
who  was  to  raise  that  headstone  of  Beauty  above 
the  towers  of  watch  and  war.  Remember  all 
that  he  became  ;  count  the  sacred  thoughts  with 
which  he  filled  the  heart  of  Italy  ;  ask  those  who 
followed  him  what  they  learned  at  his  feet ;  and 
when  you  have  numbered  his  labors,  and  received 
their  testimony,  if  it  seem  to  you  that  God  had 
verily  poured  out  upon  this  His  servant  no  com- 
mon nor  restrained  portion  of  His  Spirit,  and 


THE   LAMP   OF  LIFE.  1 93 

that  he  was  indeed  a  king  among  the  children  of 
men,  remember  also  that  the  legend  upon  his 
crown  was  that  of  David's: — "I  took  thee  from 
the  sheepcote,  and  from  following  the  sheep." 


V. — THE    LAMP    OF    LIFE. 

The  creations  of  Architecture,  being  not  essen- 
tially composed  of  things  pleasant  in  themselves, 
as  music  of  sweet  sounds,  or  painting  of  fair 
colors,  but  of  inert  substance,  depend  for  their 
dignity  and  pleasurableness,  in  the  utmost  de- 
gree, upon  the  vivid  expression  of  the  intellectu- 
al life  which  has  been  concerned  in  their  produc 
tion. 

It  is  no  sign  of  deadness  in  a  present  art  that 
it  borrows  or  imitates,  but  only  if  it  borrows 
without  paying  interest,  or  if  it  imitates  without 
choice.  The  art  of  a  great  nation,  which  is  de- 
veloped  without  any  acquaintance  with  nobler 
examples  than  its  own  early  efforts  furnish,  ex- 
hibits  always  the.  most  consistent  and  compre- 
hensible growth,  and  perhaps  is  regarded  usually 
as  peculiarly  venerable  in  its  self-origination. 
But  there  is  something  to  my  mind  more  majes- 
tic yet  in  the  life  of  an  architecture  like  that  of 
the  Lombards,  rude  and  infantine  in  itself,  and 


194  ARCHITECTURE. 

surrounded  by  fragments  of  a  nobler  art  of 
which  it  is  quick  in  admiration,  and  ready  in 
imitation,  and  yet  so  strong  in  its  own  new  in- 
stincts that  it  re-constructs  and  re-arranges 
every  fragment  that  it  copies  or  borrows  into 
harmony  with  its  own  thoughts, — a  harmony  at 
first  disjointed  and  awkward,  but  completed  in  the 
end,  and  fused  into  perfect  organization  ;  all  the 
borrowed  elements  being  subordinated  to  its  own 
primal,  unchanged  life. 

Two  very  distinguishing  characters  of  vital 
imitation  are,  its  Frankness  and  its  Audacity  ; 
its  Frankness  is  especially  singular ;  there  is 
never  any  effort  to  conceal  the  degree  of  the 
sources  of  its  borrowing.  Raffaelle  carries  off  a 
whole  figure  from  Masaccio,  or  borrows  an  en- 
tire composition  from  Perugino,  with  as  much 
tranquillity  and  simplicity  of  innocence  as  a 
young  Spartan  pickpocket ;  and  the  architect  of 
a  Romanesque  basilica  gathered  his  columns  and 
his  capitals  where  he  could  find  them,  as  an  ant 
picks  up  sticks. 

Frankness,  however,  is  in  itself  no  excuse  for 
repetition,  nor  Audacity  for  innovation,  when 
the  one  is  indolent  and  the  other  unwise. 

I  believe  the  right  question  to  ask,  respecting 
all  ornament,  is  simply  this  :  Was  it  done  with 
enjoyment — was  the  carver  happy  while  he  was 
about  it  ?     It  may  be  the  hardest  work  possible, 


THE  LAMP   OF  MEMORY.  195 

and  the  harder  because  so  much  pleasure  was 
taken  in  it  ;  but  it  must  have  been  happy  too  or 
it  will  not  be  living. 

We  have  certain  work  to  do  for  our  bread,  and 
that  is  to  be  done  strenuously  ;  other  work  to 
do  for  our  delight,  and  that  is  to  be  done  hearti- 
ly ;  neither  is  to  be  done  by  halves  or  shifts, 
but  with  a  will  ;  and  what  is  not  worth  this  ef- 
fort is  not  to  be  done  at  all.  There  is  dreaming 
enough,  and  earthiness  enough,  and  sensuality 
enough  in  human  existence,  without  our  turning 
the  few  glowing  moments  of  it  into  mechanism  ; 
and  since  our  life  must  at  the  best  be  but  a  vapor 
that  appears  but  for  a  little  time  and  then  van- 
ishes away,  let  it  at  least  appear  as  a  cloud  in 
the  height  of  Heaven,  not  as  the  thick  darkness 
that  broods  over  the  blast  of  the  Furnace,  and 
rolling  of  the  Wheel. 


VI. — THE    LAMP   OF    MEMORY. 

As  the  centralisation  and  protectress  of  Mem- 
ory and  Association,  Architecture  is  to  be  re- 
garded by  us  with  the  most  serious  thought. 
We  may  live  without  her,  and  worship  without 
her,  but  we  cannot  remember  without  her. 
How  cold  is  all  history,  how  lifeless  all  imagery, 


I96  ARCHITECTURE. 

compared  to  that  which  the  living  nation  writes, 
and  the  uncorrupted  marble  bears  !  How  many- 
pages  of  doubtful  record  might  we  not  often 
spare,  for  a  few  stones  left  one  upon  another  ? 
The  ambition  of  the  old  Babel-builders  was  well 
directed  for  this  world.  There  are  but  two 
strong  conquerors  of  the  forgetfulness  of  men, 
Poetry  and  Architecture  ;  and  the  latter  in  some 
sort  includes  the  former,  and  is  mightier  in  its 
reality.  It  is  well  to  have,  not  only  what  men 
have  thought  and  felt,  but  what  their  hands  have 
handled  and  their  strength  wrought,  and  their 
eyes  beheld,  all  the  days  of  their  life.  The  age 
of  Homer  is  surrounded  with  darkness,  his  very 
personality  with  doubt.  Not  so  that  of  Pericles  : 
and  the  day  is  coming  when  we  shall  confess 
we  have  learned  more  of  Greece  out  of  the 
crumbled  fragments  of  her  sculpture  than  even 
from  her  sweet  singers  or  soldier  historians. 
And  if  indeed  there  be  any  profit  in  our  knowl- 
edge of  the  past,  or  any  joy  in  the  thought  of  be- 
ing remembered  hereafter,  which  can  give 
strength  to  present  exertion,  or  patience  to  pres- 
ent endurance,  there  are  two  duties  respecting 
national  Architecture  whose  importance  it  is 
impossible  to  overrate  ;  the  first  to  render  the 
Architecture  of  the  day  historical ;  and  the  sec- 
ond, to  preserve,  as  the  most  precious  of  inherit- 
ances, that  of  past  ages.     It  is  in  becoming  me- 


THE  LAMP   OF  MEMORY.  197 

morial  or  monumental  that  a  true  perfection  is 
attained  by  civil  and  domestic  buildings. 

As  regards  domestic  buildings,  there  must  al- 
ways be  a  certain  limitation  to  views  of  this 
kind  in  the  power  as  well  as  in  the  hearts  of 
men  ;  still  I  cannot  but  think  it  an  evil  sign  of  a 
people  when  their  houses  are  built  to  last  but 
one  generation  only.  There  is  a  sanctity  in  a 
good  man's  house  which  cannot  be  renewed  in 
every  tenement  that  rises  on  its  ruins ;  and  I 
believe  that  good  men  would  generally  feel  this  ; 
and  that  having  spent  their  lives  happily  and 
honorably,  they  would  be  grieved  at  the  close  of 
them  to  think  that  the  place  of  their  earthly 
abode,  which  had  seen,  and  seemed  almost  to 
sympathise  in  all  their  honor,  their  gladness,  or 
their  suffering, — that  this,  with  all  the  record  it 
bare  of  them,  and  all  of  material  things  that  they 
had  loved  and  ruled  over,  and  set  the  stamp  of 
themselves  upon,  was  to  be  swept  away,  as  soon 
as  there  was  room  for  them  made  in  the  grave  ; 
that  no  respect  was  to  be  shown  to  it,  no  affec- 
tion felt  for  it,  no  good  to  be  drawn  from  it  by 
their  children  ;  that  though  there  was  a  monu- 
ment in  the  church,  there  was  no  warm  monu- 
ment in  the  hearth  and  house  to  them  ;  that  all 
that  they  ever  treasured  was  despised,  and  the 
places  that  had  sheltered  them  were  dragged 
down  to  the  dust.     I  say  that  a  good  man  would 


I98  ARCHITECTURE. 

fear  this  ;  and  that,  far  more,  a  good  son,  a 
noble  descendant,  would  fear  doing  it  to  his 
father's  house.  If  men  lived  like  men  indeed, 
their  houses  would  be  temples — which  we  should 
hardly  dare  to  injure,  and  in  which  it  would 
make  us  holy  to  be  permitted  to  live  ;  and  there 
must  be  a  strange  dissolution  of  natural  affection, 
a  strange  unthankfulness  for  all  that  homes 
have  given  and  parents  taught,  a  strange  con- 
sciousness that  we  have  been  unfaithful  to  our 
father's  honor,  or  that  our  own  lives  are  not  such 
as  would  make  our  dwellings  sacred  to  our  chil- 
dren, when  each  man  would  fain  build  to  him- 
self, and  build  for  the  little  revolution  of  his  own 
life  only. 

When  men  do  not  love  their  hearths,  nor  rev- 
erence their  thresholds,  it  is  a  sign  that  they 
have  dishonored  both.  Our  God  is  a  household 
God,  as  well  as  a  heavenly  one;  He  has  an  altar 
in  every  man's  dwelling;  let  men  look  to  it  when 
they  rend  it  lightly,  and  pour  out  its  ashes. 

It  would  be  better  if,  in  every  possible  in- 
stance, men  built  their  own  houses  on  a  scale 
commensurate  rather  with  their  condition  at  the 
commencement,  than  their  attainments  at  the 
termination  of  their  worldly  career;  and  built 
them  to  stand  as  long  as  human  work,  at  its 
strongest,  can  be  hoped  to  stand,  recording  to 
their  children  what  they  have  been,  and  from 


THE  LAMP   OF  MEMORY.  1 99 

what,  if  so  it  had  been  permitted  them,  they 
had  risen.  I  would  have,  then,  our  ordinary 
dwelling-houses  built  to  last,  and  built  to  be 
lovely;  as  rich  and  full  of  pleasantness  as  may 
be,  within  and  without,  and  with  such  differ- 
ences as  might  suit  and  express  each  man's  char- 
acter and  occupation,  and  partly  his  history. 

In  public  buildings  the  historical  purpose 
should  be  still  more  definite.  Better  the  rudest 
work  that  tells  a  story  or  records  a  fact,  than 
the  richest  without  meaning.  There  should  not 
be  a  single  ornament  put  upon  great  civic  build- 
ings, without  some  intellectual  intention.  It  is 
one  of  the  advantages  of  gothic  architecture, 
that  it  admits  of  a  richness  of  record  altogether 
unlimited. 

Every  human  action  gains  in  honor,  in  grace, 
in  all  true  magnificence,  by  its  regard  to  things 
that  are  to  come.  It  is  the  far  sight,  the  quiet 
and  confident  patience,  that,  above  all  other  at- 
tributes, separate  man  from  man,  and  near  him 
to  his  Maker;  and  there  is  no  action  nor  art, 
whose  majesty  we  may  not  measure  by  this  test. 
Therefore,  when  we  build,  let  us  think  that  we 
build  (public  edifices)  for  ever.  Let  it  not  be  for 
present  delight,  nor  for  present  use  alone,  let  it  be 
such  work  as  our  descendants  will  thank  us  for, 
and  let  us  think,  as  we  lay  stone  on  stone,  that  a 
time  is  to  come  when  those  stones  will  be  held  sa- 


200  ARCHITECTURE. 

cred  because  our  hands  have  touched  them,  and 
that  men  will  say  as  they  look  upon  the  labor  and 
wrought  substance  of  them,  "  See!  this  our  fa 
thers  did  for  us."  For,  indeed,  the  greatest  glory 
of  a  building  is  not  in  its  stones,  or  in  its  gold. 
Its  glory  is  in  its  age,  and  in  that  deep  sense  of 
voicefulness,  of  stern  watching,  of  mysterious 
sympathy,  nay  even  of  approval  or  condemna- 
tion, which  we  feel  in  walls  that  have  long  been 
washed  by  the  passing  waves  of  humanity. 


VII. — THE   LAMP   OF   OBEDIENCE. 

It  has  been  my  endeavor  to  show  how  every 
form  of  noble  architecture  is  in  some  sort  the 
embodiment  of  the  Polity,  Life,  History,  and 
Religious  Faith  of  nations.  Once  or  twice  in 
doing  this,  I  have  named  a  principle  to  which  I 
would  now  assign  a  definite  place  among  those 
which  direct  that  embodiment; — the  crowning 
grace  of  all  the  rest:  that  principle  to  which 
Polity  owes  its  stability,  Life  its  happiness,  Faith 
its  acceptance,  Creation  its  continuance, — Obe- 
dience. 

How  false  is  the  conception,  how  frantic  the 
pursuit,  of  that  treacherous  phantom  which  men 
call   Liberty!     There  is  no  such  thing  in  the 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  201 

universe.  There  can  never  be.  The  stars  have 
it  not;  the  earth  has  it  not;  the  sea  has  it  not; 
and  we  men  have  the  mockery  and  semblance  of 
it  only  for  our  heaviest  punishment. 

The  enthusiast  would  reply  that  by  Liberty 
he  meant  the  Law  of  Liberty.  Then  why  use 
the  single  and  misunderstood  word  ?  If  by  lib- 
erty you  mean  chastisement  of  the  passions,  dis- 
cipline of  the  intellect,  subjection  of  the  will;  if 
you  mean  the  fear  of  inflicting,  the  shame  of 
committing  a  wrong;  if  you  mean  respect  for 
all  who  are  in  authority,  and  consideration  for 
all  who  are  in  dependence;  veneration  for  the 
good,  mercy  to  the  evil,  sympathy  with  the 
weak; — if  you  mean,  in  a  word,  that  service 
which  is  defined  in  the  liturgy  of  the  English 
church  to  be  "  perfect  Freedom,"  why  do  you 
name  this  by  the  same  word  by  which  the  lux- 
urious mean  license,  and  the  reckless  mean 
change; — by  which  the  rogue  means  rapine,  and 
the  fool,  equality;  by  which  the  proud  mean 
anarchy,  and  the  malignant  mean  violence  ?  Call 
it  by  any  name  rather  than  this,  but  its  best  and 
truest  test  is,  Obedience. 

Obedience  is,  indeed,  founded  on  a  kind  of 
freedom,  else  it  would  become  mere  s?tbjugation, 
but  that  freedom  is  only  granted  that  obedience 
may  be  more  perfect. 

If  there  be  any  one  condition  which,  in  watch- 


202  ARCHITECTURE. 

ing  the  progress  of  Architecture,  we  see  distinct 
and  general,  it  is  this;  that  the  Architecture  of 
a  nation  is  great  only  when  it  is  as  universal  and 
as  established  as  its  language;  and  when  provin- 
cial differences  of  style  are  nothing  more  than 
so  many  dialetcs.  Other  necessities  are  matters 
of  doubt:  nations  have  been  alike  successful  in 
their  architecture  in  times  of  poverty  and  of 
wealth;  in  times  of  war  and  of  peace;  in  times  of 
barbarism  and  of  refinement;  under  governments 
the  most  liberal  or  the  most  arbitrary;  but  this 
one  condition  has  been  constant,  this  one  require- 
ment clear  in  all  places  and  at  all  times,  that  the 
work  shall  be  that  of  a  school,  that  no  individual 
caprice  shall  dispense  with,  or  materially  vary, 
accepted  types  and  customary  decorations;  and 
that  from  the  cottage  to  the  palace,  and  from 
the  chapel  to  the  basilica,  and  from  the  garden 
fence  to  the  fortress  wall,  every  member  and  fea- 
ture of  the  architecture  of  the  nation  shall  be 
as  commonly  current,  as  frankly  accepted,  as 
its  language  or  its  coin. 

A  day  never  passes  without  our  hearing  our 
English  architects  called  upon  to  be  original, 
and  to  invent  a  new  style:  About  as  sensible 
and  necessary  an  exhortation  as  to  ask  a  man 
who  has  never  had  rags  on  his  back  to  keep  out 
cold,  to  invent  a  new  mode  of  cutting  a  coat. 
Give  him  a  whole  coat  first  and  let  him  concern 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  203 

himself  about  the  fashion  of  it  afterwards.  We 
want  no  new  style  of  architecture.  Who  wants 
a  new  style  of  painting  or  sculpture  ?  But  we 
want  some  style'.  It  is  of  marvellously  little  im- 
portance, if  we  have  a  code  of  laws  and  they  be 
good  laws,  whether  they  be  new  or  old,  foreign 
or  native,  Roman  or  Saxon,  or  Norman  or  Eng- 
lish laws.  But  it  is  of  considerable  importance 
that  we  should  have  a  code  of  laws  of  one  kind 
or  another,  and  that  code  accepted  and  en- 
forced from  one  side  of  the  island  to  the  other, 
and  not  one  law  made  ground  of  judgment  at 
York  and  another  at  Exeter. 

There  seems  to  be  a  wonderful  misunderstand- 
ing among  the  majority  of  architects  at  the 
present  day,  as  to  the  very  nature  and  meaning 
of  Originality,  and  of  all  wherein  it  consists. 
Originality  in  expression  does  not  depend  on 
invention  of  new  words ;  nor  originality  in 
poetry  on  invention  of  new  measures ;  nor,  in 
painting,  on  invention  of  new  colors,  or  new 
modes  of  using  them.  The  chords  of  music, 
the  harmonies  of  color,  the  general  principles 
of  the  arrangement  of  sculptural  masses,  have 
been  determined  long  ago,  and,  in  all  probabili- 
ty, cannot  be  added  to  any  more  than  they  can 
be  altered. 

A  man  who  has  the  gift,  will  take  up  any  style 
that  is  going,  the  style  of  his  day,  and  will  work 


204  ARCHITECTURE. 

in  that,  and  be  great  in  that,  and  make  every- 
thing that  he  does  in  it  look  as  fresh  as  if  every 
thought  of  it  had  just  come  down  from  heaven. 
I  do  not  say  that  he  will  not  take  liberties  with 
his  materials,  or  with  his  rules.  I  do  not  say 
that  strange  changes  will  not  sometimes  be 
wrought  by  his  efforts,  or  his  fancies,  in  both. 
But  those  changes  will  be  instructive,  natural, 
facile,  though  sometimes  marvellous;  and  those 
liberties  will  be  like  the  liberties  that  a  great 
speaker  takes  with  the  language,  not  a  defiance 
of  its  rules  for  the  sake  of  singularity,  but  inevit- 
able, uncalculated,  and  brilliant  consequences  of 
an  effort  to  express  what  the  language,  with- 
out such  infraction,  could  not. 

I  know  too  well  the  undue  importance  which 
the  study  that  every  man  follows  must  assume 
in  his  own  eyes,  to  trust  my  own  impressions  of 
the  dignity  of  that  of  Architecture;  and  yet  I 
think  I  cannot  be  utterly  mistaken  in  regarding 
it  as  at  least  useful  in  the  sense  of  a  National 
employment.  I  am  confirmed  in  this  impression 
by  what  I  see  passing  among  the  states  of 
Europe  at  this  instant.  All  the  horror,  distress, 
and  tumult  which  oppress  the  foreign  nations, 
are  traceable,  among  the  other  secondary  causes 
through  which  God  is  working  out  His  will  upon 
them,  to  the  simple  one  of  their  not  having 
enough  to  do.     I  am  not  blind  to  the  distress 


THE   LAMP    OF  OBEDIENCE.  205 

among  their  operatives ;  nor  do  I  deny  the 
nearer  and  visibly  active  causes  of  the  move- 
ment: the  recklessness  of  villany  in  the  leaders 
of  revolt,  the  absence  of  common  moral  princi- 
ple in  the  upper  classes,  and  of  common  cour- 
age and  honesty  in  the  heads  of  governments. 
But  these  causes  are  ultimately  traceable  to  a 
deeper  and  simpler  one;  the  recklessness  of  the 
demagogue,  the  immorality  of  the  middle  class, 
and  the  effeminacy  and  treachery  of  the  noble, 
are  traceable  in  all  these  nations  to  the  com- 
monest and  most  fruitful  cause  of  calamity  in 
households — Idleness. 

We  think  too  much  in  our  benevolent  efforts, 
more  multiplied  and  more  vain  day  by  day,  of 
bettering  men  by  giving  them  advice  and  in- 
struction. There  are  few  who  will  take  either; 
the  chief  thing  they  need  is  occupation.  I  do 
not  mean  work  in  the  sense  of  bread — I  mean 
work  in  the  sense  of  mental  interest j  for  those 
who  either  are  placed  above  the  necessity  of 
labor  for  their  bread,  or  who  will  not  work  al- 
though they  should. 

There  are  multitudes  of  idle  semi-gentlemen 
who  ought  to  be  shoemakers  and  carpenters* 
It  is  of  no  use  to  tell  them  they  are  fools,  and 
that  they  will  only  make  themselves  miserable 
in  the  end  as  Avell  as  others;  if  they  have  noth- 
ing else  to  do,  they  will  do  mischief;  and  the 


206  ARCHITECTURE. 

man  who  will  not  work,  and  has  no  means  of 
intellectual  pleasure,  is  as  sure  to  become  an 
instrument  of  evil  as  if  he  had  sold  himself  bodi- 
ly to  Satan. 

It  would  be  wise  to  consider  whether  the 
forms  of  employment  which  we  chiefly  adopt  or 
promote,  are  as  well  calculated  as  they  might  be 
to  improve  and  elevate  us. 

I  have  paused,  not  once  nor  twice  as  I  wrote, 
and  often  have  checked  the  course  of  what 
might  otherwise  have  been  importunate  persua- 
sion, as  the  thought  has  crossed  me,  how  soon 
all  Architecture  may  be  vain,  except  that  which 
is  "not  made  with  hands." 

All  European  architecture,  bad  and  good,  old 
and  new,  is  derived  from  Greece  through  Rome, 
and  colored  and  perfected  from  the  East.  The 
history  of  Architecture  is  nothing  but  the  trac- 
ing of  the  various  modes  and  directions  of  this 
derivation.  The  Doric  and  the  Corinthian  or- 
ders are  the  roots,  the  one  of  all  Romanesque, 
massy-capitaled  buildings — Norman,  Lombard, 
Byzantine,  and  what  else  you  can  name  of  the 
kind;  and  the  Corinthian  of  all  Gothic,  Early 
English,  French,  German,  and  Tuscan.  Now 
observe:  those  old  Greeks  gave  the  shaft:  Rome 
gave  the  arch;  the  Arabs  pointed  and  foliated 
the  arch.     The  shaft  and  arch,  the  frame-work 


THE  LAMP    OF  OBEDIENCE.  207 

and  strength  of  architecture,  are  from  the  race 
of  Japheth:  the  spirituality  and  sanctity  of  it 
from  Ismael,  Abraham,  and  Shem. 

I  have  said  that  the  two  orders,  Doric  and 
Corinthian,  are  the  roots  of  all  European  archi- 
tecture. You  have,  perhaps,  heard  of  five  or- 
ders: but  there  are  only  two  real  orders;  and 
there  never  can  be  any  more  till  doomsday.  On 
one  of  these  orders  the  ornament  is  convex: 
those  are  Doric,  Norman,  and  what  else  you 
recollect  of  the  kind.  On  the  other  the  orna- 
ment is  concave;  those  are  Corinthian,  Early 
English,  Decorated,  and  what  else  you  recollect 
of  that  kind. 

The  work  of  the  Lombard  was  to  give  hardi- 
hood and  system  to  the  enervated  body  and 
enfeebled  mind  of  Christendom  ;  that  of  the 
Arab  was  to  punish  idolatry,  and  to  proclaim 
the  spirituality  of  worship.  The  Lombard  cov- 
ered every  church  which  he  built  with  the  sculp- 
tured representations  of  bodily  exercises — hunt- 
ing and  war.  The  Arab  banished  all  imagination 
of  creature  form  from  his  temples,  and  pro- 
claimed from  their  minarets,  "There  is  no  god 
but  God."  Opposite  in  their  character  and 
mission,  alike  in  their  magnificence  of  energy, 
they  came  from  the  North  and  from  the  South, 
the  glacier  torrent  and  the  lava  stream;  they 
met   and    contended    over    the   wreck   of   the 


208  ARCHITECTURE. 

Roman  empire  ;  and  the  very  centre  of  the 
struggle,  the  point  of  pause  of  both,  the  dead- 
water  of  the  opposite  eddies,  charged  with 
embayed  fragments  of  the  Roman  wreck,  is 
Venice. 

The  Ducal  Palace  of  Venice  contains  the 
three  elements  in  exactly  equal  proportions — 
the  Roman,  Lombard,  and  Arab.  It  is  the  cen- 
tral building  of  the  world. 

Now  Venice,  as  she  was  once  the  most  relig- 
ious, was  in  her  fall  the  most  corrupt,  of  Euro- 
pean states;  and  as  she  was  in  her  strength  the 
centre  of  the  pure  currents  of  Christian  architect- 
ure, so  she  is  in  her  decline  the  source  of  the 
Renaissance. 

Come,  then,  if  truths  such  as  these  are  worth 
our  thoughts;  come,  and  let  us  know,  before  we 
enter  the  streets  of  the  Sea  City,  whether  we 
are  indeed  to  submit  ourselves  to  their  undis- 
tinguished enchantment,  and  to  look  upon  the 
last  changes  which  were  wrought  on  the  lifted 
forms  of  her  palaces,  as  we  should  on  the  ca- 
pricious towering  of  summer  clouds  in  the  sun- 
set, ere  they  sank  into  the  deep  of  night;  or 
whether,  rather,  we  shall  not  behold  in  the 
brightness  of  their  accumulated  marble,  pages 
on  which  the  sentence  of  her  luxury  was  to  be 
written  until  the  waves  should  efface  it,  as  they 


THE   LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  209 

fulfilled — "  God  has  numbered  thy  kingdom,  and 
finished  it." 

Since  the  first  dominion  of  men  was  asserted 
over  the  ocean,  three  thrones,  of  mark  beyond 
all  others,  have  been  set  upon  its  sands:  the 
thrones  of  Tyre,  Venice,  and  England.  Of  the 
first  of  these  great  powers  only  the  memory  re- 
mains; of  the  second,  the  ruin;  the  third,  which 
inherits  their  greatness,  if  it  forget  their  exam- 
ple, may  be  led  through  prouder  eminence  to 
less  pitied  destruction. 

The  exaltation,  the  sin,  and  the  punishment 
of  Tyre,  have  been  recorded  for  us,  in  perhaps 
the  most  touching  words  ever  uttered  by  the 
Prophets  of  Israel  against  the  cities  of  the 
stranger.  But  we  read  them  as  a  lovely  song; 
and  close  our  ears  to  the  sternness  of  their  warn- 
ing; for  the  very  depth  of  the  fall  of  Tyre  has 
blinded  us  to  its  reality,  and  we  forget,  as  we 
watch  the  bleaching  of  the  rocks  between  the 
sunshine  and  the  sea,  that  they  were  once  "  as 
in  Eden,  the  garden  of  God." 

Her  successor,  like  her  in  perfection  of  beauty, 
though  less  in  endurance  of  dominion,  is  still 
left  for  our  beholding  in  the  final  period  of  her 
decline:  a  ghost  upon  the  sands  of  the  sea,  so 
weak — so  quiet, — so  bereft  of  all  but  her  loveli- 
ness, that  we  might  well  doubt,  as  we  watched 
her  faint  reflection  in  the  mirage  of  the  lagoon, 


2IO  ARCHITECTURE. 

which  was  the  City,  and  which  the  Shadow.  A 
warning  seems  to  me  to  be  uttered  by  every  one 
of  the  fast-gaining  waves,  that  beat  like  passing 
bells  against  the  stones  of  Venice. 

The  state  of  Venice  existed  thirteen  hundred 
and  seventy-six  years.  Of  this  period  two  hun- 
dred and  seventy-six  years  were  passed  in  a 
nominal  subjection  to  the  cities  of  old  Venetia, 
and  in  a  nagitated  form  of  democracy.  Forsix 
hundred  years,  during  which  the  power  of 
Venice  was  continually  on  the  increase,  her  gov- 
ernment was  an  elective  monarchy,  her  king  or 
Doge  possessing,  in  early  times  at  least,  as  much 
independent  authority  as  any  other  European 
sovereign;  but  an  authority  gradually  subjected 
to  limitation,  and  shortened  almost  daily  of  its 
prerogatives,  while  it  increased  in  a  spectral  and 
incapable  magnificence.  The  final  government 
of  the  nobles,  under  the  image  of  a  king,  lasted 
for  five  hundred  years,  during  which  Venice 
reaped  the  fruits  of  her  former  energies,  con- 
sumed them, — and  expired. 

Throughout  her  career,  the  victories  of  Venice, 
and  at  many  periods  of  it,  her  safety,  were  pur- 
chased by  individual  heroism;  and  the  man  who 
exalted  or  saved  her  was  sometimes  her  king, 
sometimes  a  noble,  sometimes  a  citizen. 

The  most  curious  phenomenon  in  all  Venetian 
history,  is  the  vitality  of  religion  in  private  life, 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.         211 

and  its  deadness  in  public  policy.  Amidst  the 
enthusiasm,  chivalry,  or  fanaticism  of  the  other 
states  of  Europe,  Venice  stands,  from  first  to 
last,  like  a  masked  statue;  her  coldness  impene- 
trable, her  exertion  only  aroused  by  the  touch 
of  a  secret  spring.  That  spring  was  her  commer- 
cial interest, — this  the  one  motive  of  all  her  im- 
portant political  acts,  or  enduring  national 
animosities.  She  could  forgive  insults  to  her 
honor,  but  never  rivalship  in  her  commerce.  She 
calculated  the  glory  of  her  conquests  by  their 
value,  and  estimated  their  justice  by  their  facil- 
ity. 

There  are,  therefore,  two  strange  and  solemn 
lights  in  which  we  have  to  regard  almost  every 
scene  in  the  fitful  history  of  the  Rivo  Alto. 
We  find,  on  the  one  hand,  a  deep  and  constant 
tone  of  individual  religion  characterizing  the 
lives  of  the  citizens  of  Venice  in  her  greatness; 
we  find  this  spirit  influencing  them  in  all  the 
familiar  and  immediate  concerns  of  life,  giving 
a  peculiar  dignity  to  the  conduct  even  of  their 
commercial  transactions,  and  confessed  by  them 
with  a  simplicity  of  faith  that  may  well  put  to 
shame  the  hesitation  with  which  a  man  of  the 
world  at  present  admits  (even  if  it  be  so  in 
reality),  that  religious  feeling  has  any  influence 
over  the  minor  branches  of  his  conduct.  With 
the  fulness  of  this  spirit  the  prosperity  of  the 


212  ARCHITECTURE. 

state  is  exactly  correspondent,  and  with  its  fail- 
ure her  decline. 

There  is  another  most  interesting  feature  in 
the  policy  of  Venice,  namely,  the  magnificent  and 
successful  struggle  which  she  maintained  against 
the  temporal  authority  of  the  Church  of  Rome. 

One  more  circumstance  remains  to  be  noted 
respecting  the  Venetian  government,  the  singu- 
lar unity  of  the  families  composing  it, — unity 
far  from  sincere  or  perfect,  but  still  admirable 
when  contrasted  with  the  fiery  feuds,  the  almost 
daily  revolutions,  which  fill  the  annals  of  the 
other  states  of  Italy.  Venice  may  well  call  upon 
us  to  note  with  reverence,  that  of  all  the  towers 
which  are  still  seen  rising,  like  a  branchless  for- 
est, from  her  islands,  there  is  but  one  whose 
office  was  other  than  that  of  summoning  to 
prayer,  and  that  one  was  a  watch-tower  only. 

The  Venice  of  Modern  fiction  and  drama  is  a 
thing  of  yesterday,  a  mere  efflorescence  of  de- 
cay, a  stage-dream  which  the  first  ray  of  day- 
light must  dissipate  into  dust.  No  prisoner, 
whose  name  is  worth  remembering,  or  whose 
sorrow  deserved  sympathy,  ever  crossed  that 
"  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  which  is  the  centre  of  the 
Byronic  ideal  of  Venice,  no  great  Merchant  of 
Venice  ever  saw  that  Rialto  under  which  the 
traveller   now  passes   with   breathless   interest: 


THE  LAMP    OF  OBEDIENCE.  213 

the  statue,  which  Byron  makes  Faliero  address 
as  one  of  his  great  ancestors,  was  erected  to  a 
soldier  of  fortune  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after 
Faliero's  death;  and  the  most  conspicuous  parts 
of  the  city  have  been  so  entirely  altered  in  the 
course  of  the  last  three  centuries,  that  if  Henry 
Dandola  or  Francis  Foscari  could  be  summoned 
from  their  tombs,  and  stood  each  on  the  deck 
of  his  galley,  at  the  entrance  of  the  Grand 
Canal,  that  renowned  entrance,  the  painter's 
favorite  subject,  the  novelist's  favorite  scene, 
where  the  water  first  narrows  by  the  steps  of 
the  church  of  La  Salute — the  mighty  Doges 
would  not  know  in  what  spot  of  the  world  they 
stood,  would  literally  not  recognise  one  stone  of 
the  great  city,  for  whose  sake  and  by  whose  in- 
gratitude their  gray  hairs  had  been  brought 
down  with  bitterness  to  the  grave.  The  remains 
of  their  Venice  lie  hidden  behind  the  cumbrous 
masses  which  were  the  delight  of  the  nation  in 
its  dotage;  hidden  in  many  a  grass-grown  court, 
and  silent  pathway,  and  lightless  canal,  where 
the  slow  waves  have  sapped  their  foundations 
for  five  hundred  years,  and  must  soon  prevail 
over  them  for  ever.  It  must  be  our  task  to 
glean  and  gather  them  forth,  and  restore  out  of 
them  some  faint  image  of  the  lost  city;  more 
gorgeous  a  thousand  fold,  than  that  which  now 
exists,  yet  not  created  in  the  day-dream  of  the 


214  ARCHITECTURE. 

prince,  nor  by  the  ostentation  of  the  noble,  but 
built  by  iron  hands  and  patient  hearts,  contend- 
ing against  the  adversity  of  nature  and  the  fury 
of  man,  so  that  its  wonderfulness  cannot  be 
grasped  by  the  indolence  of  imagination,  but 
only  after  frank  inquiry  into  the  true  nature  of 
that  wild  and  solitary  scene,  whose  restless  tide 
and  trembling  sands  did,  indeed,  shelter  the 
birth  of  the  city,  but  long  denied  her  dominion. 
It  is  enough  for  us  to  know  that  from  the 
mouths  of  the  Adige  to  those  of  the  Piave  there 
stretches,  at  a  variable  distance  of  from  three  to 
five  miles  from  the  actual  shore,  a  bank  of  sand 
divided  into  long  islands  by  narrow  channels  of 
sea.  The  space  between  this  bank  and  the  true 
shore  consists  of  the  sedimentary  deposits  from 
these  and  other  rivers,  a  great  plain  of  calcare- 
ous mud,  covered,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Venice 
by  the  sea  at  high  water,  to  the  depth  in  most 
places  of  a  foot  or  a  foot  and  a  half,  and  nearly 
everywhere  exposed  at  low  tide,  but  divided  by 
an  intricate  network  of  narrow  and  winding 
channels,  from  which  the  sea  never  retires.  In 
some  places,  according  to  the  run  of  the  cur- 
rents, the  land  has  risen  into  marshy  islets,  con- 
solidated, some  by  art  and  some  by  time,  into 
ground  firm  enough  to  be  built  upon,  or  fruitful 
enough  to  be  cultivated;  in  others,  on  the  con- 
trary, it  has  not  reached  the  sea  level;  so  that, 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  21 5 

at  the  average  low  water,  shallow  lakelets  glitter 
among  its  irregularly-exposed  fields  of  sea-weed. 
In  the  midst  of  the  largest  of  these,  increased 
in  importance  by  the  confluence  of  several  large 
river  channels  towards  one  of  the  openings  in 
the  sea  bank,  the  city  of  Venice  itself  is  built, 
on  a  crowded  cluster  of  islands. 

If,  two  thousand  years  ago,  we  had  been  per- 
mitted to  see  the  slow  settling  of  the  slime  of 
those  turbid  waters  into  the  polluted  sea,  and 
the  gaining  upon  its  deep  and  fresh  waters  of 
the  lifeless,  impassable,  unvoyageable  plain,  how 
little  could  we  have  understood  the  purpose  with 
which  those  islands  were  shaped  out  of  the  void, 
and  the  torpid  waters  enclosed  with  their  deso- 
late walls  of  sand  !  How  little  could  we  have 
known,  any  more  than  of  what  now  seems  to  us 
most  distressful,  dark,  and  objectless,  the  glorious 
aim  which  was  then  in  the  mind  of  Him  in  whose 
hand  are  all  the  corners  of  the  earth  !  how  little 
imagined  that  in  the  laws  which  were  stretching 
forth  the  gloomy  mud  of  those  fruitless  banks, 
and  feeding  the  bitter  grass  among  their  shal- 
lows, there  was  indeed  a  preparation,  and  the 
only  preparation  possible,  for  the  founding  of 
a  city  which  was  to  be  set  like  a  golden  clasp 
on  the  girdle  of  the  earth,  to  write  her  history 
on  the  white  scrolls  of  the  sea-surges,  and  to 
word  it  in  their  thunder,  and  to  gather  and  give 


2l6  ARCHITECTURE. 

forth,  in  the  world-wide  pulsation,  the  glory  of 
the  West  and  of  the  East,  from  the  burning 
heart  of  her  Fortitude  and  Splendor. 

The  vast  tower  of  St.  Mark  seems  to  lift  itself 
visibly  forth  from  the  level  field  of  chequered 
stones  ;  and,  on  each  side,  the  countless  arches 
prolong  themselves  into  ranged  symmetry,  as  if 
the  rugged  and  irregular  houses  that  pressed 
together  above  us  in  the  dark  alley  had  been 
struck  back  into  sudden  obedience  and  lovely 
order,  and  all  their  rude  casements  and  broken 
walls  had  been  transformed  into  arches  charged 
with  goodly  sculpture,  and  fluted  shafts  of  deli- 
cate stone. 

And  Avell  may  they  fall  back,  for  beyond  those 
troops  of  ordered  arches  there  rises  a  vision  out 
of  the  earth,  and  all  the  great  square  seems  to 
have  opened  from  it  in  a  kind  of  awe,  that  we 
may  see  far  away  ; — a  multitude  of  pillars  and 
white  domes,  clustered  into  a  long  low  pyramid 
of  colored  light ;  a  treasure-heap,  it  seems, 
partly  of  gold,  and  partly  of  opal,  and  mother- 
of-pearl,  hollowed  beneath  into  five  great  vaulted 
porches,  ceiled  with  fair  mosaic,  and  beset  with 
sculpture  of  alabaster,  clear  as  amber  and  deli- 
cate as  ivory, — sculpture  fantastic  and  involved, 
of  palm  leaves  and  lilies,  and  grapes  and  pome- 
granates, and  birds  clinging  and  fluttering  among 
the  branches,  all  twined  together  into  an  endless 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  2\J 

network  of  buds  and  plumes  ;  and,  in  the  midst 
of  it,  the  solemn  form  of  angels,  sculptured, 
and  robed  to  the  feet,  and  leaning  to  each  other 
across  the  gates,  their  figures  indistinct  among 
the  gleaming  of  the  golden  ground  through  the 
leaves  beside  them,  interrupted  and  dim,  like  the 
morning  light  as  it  faded  among  the  branches  of 
Eden,  when  first  its  gates  were  angel-guarded 
long  ago.  And  round  the  walls  of  the  porches 
there  are  set  pillars  of  variegated  stones,  jasper 
and  porphyry,  and  deep-green  serpentine  spotted 
with  flakes  of  snow,  and  marbles,  that  half  refuse 
and  half  yield  to  the  sunshine,  Cleopatra-like, 
"  their  bluest  veins  to  kiss" — the  shadow,  as  it 
steals  back  from  them,  revealing  line  after  line 
of  azure  undulation,  as  a  receding  tide  leaves  the 
waved  sand;  their  capitals  rich  with  interwoven 
tracery,  rooted  knots  of  herbage,  and  drifting 
leaves  of  acanthus  and  vine,  and  mystical  signs, 
all  beginning  and  ending  in  the  Cross ;  and 
above  them,  in  the  broad  archivolts,  a  continu- 
ous chain  of  language  and  of  life — angels,  and 
the  signs  of  heaven,  and  the  labors  of  men,  each 
in  its  appointed  season  upon  the  earth ;  and 
above  these,  another  range  of  glittering  pinna- 
cles, mixed  with  white  arches  edged  with  scarlet 
flowers, — a  confusion  of  delight,  amidst  which 
the  breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  are  seen  blazing 
in  their  breadth  of  golden  strength,  and  the  St. 


2l8  ARCHITECTURE. 

Mark's  Lion,  lifted  on  a  blue  field  covered  with 
stars,  until  at  last,  as  if  in  ecstasy,  the  crests  of 
the  arches  break  into  a  marble  foam,  and  toss 
themselves  far  into  the  blue  sky  in  flashes  and 
wreaths  of  sculptured  spray,  as  if  the  breakers  on 
the  Lido  shore  had  been  frostbound  before  they 
fell,  and  the  sea  nymphf"  had  inlaid  them  with 
coral  and  amethyst. 

Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England  and 
this,  what  an  interval !  There  is  a  type  of  it  in 
the  very  birds  that  haunt  them;  for,  instead  of 
the  restless  crowd,  hoarse-voiced  and  sable- 
winged,  drifting  on  the  black  upper  air,  the  St. 
Mark's  porches  are  full  of  doves,  that  nestle 
among  the  marble  foliage,  and  mingle  the  soft 
iridescence  of  their  living  plumes,  changing  at 
every  motion,  the  tints,  hardly  less  lovely,  that 
have  stood  unchanged  for  seven  hundred  years. 

And  what  effect  has  this  splendor  on  those 
who  pass  beneath  it  ?  You  may  walk  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset,  to  and  fro,  before  the  gateway  of 
St.  Mark's,  and  you  will  not  see  an  eye  lifted  to 
it,  nor  a  countenance  brightened  by  it.  Priest 
and  layman,  soldier  and  civilian,  rich  and  poor, 
pass  by  it  alike  regardless.  Up  to  the  very  re- 
cesses of  the  porches,  the  meanest  tradesmen  of 
the  city  push  their  counters  ;  nay,  the  founda- 
tions of  its  pillars  are  themselves  the  seats — not 
"  of  them  that  sell  doves"  for  sacrifice,  but  of 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  219 

the  vendors  of  toys  and  caricatures.  Round  the 
whole  square  in  front  of  the  church,  there  is 
almost  a  continuous  line  of  cafes,  where  the  idle 
Venetians  of  the  middle  classes  lounge,  and  read 
empty  journals;  in  its  centre  the  Austrian  bands 
play  during  the  time  of  vespers,  their  martial 
music  jarring  with  the  organ  notes, — the  march 
drowning  the  miserere,  and  the  sullen  crowd 
thickening  around  them — a  crowd,  which,  if  it 
had  its  will,  would  stiletto  every  soldier  that 
pipes  to  it.  And  in  the  recesses  of  the  porches, 
all  day  long,  knots  of  men  of  the  lowest  classes, 
unemployed  and  listless,  lie  basking  in  the  sun 
like  lizards  ;  and  unregarded  children — every 
heavy  glance  of  their  young  eyes  full  of  despera- 
tion and  stony  depravity ;  and  their  throats 
hoarse  with  cursing — gamble,  and  fight,  and 
snarl,  and  sleep,  hour  after  hour,  clashing  their 
bruised  centesimi  upon  the  marble  ledges  of  the 
church  porch.  And  the  images  of  Christ  and  His 
angels  look  down  upon  it  continually. 

Let  us  enter  the  church  itself.  It  is  lost  in 
still  deeper  twilight,  to  which  the  eye  must  be 
accustomed  for  some  moments  before  the  form 
of  the  building  can  be  traced;  and  then  there 
opens  before  us  a  vast  cave,  hewn  out  into  the 
form  of  a  cross,  and  divided  into  shadowy  aisles 
by  many  pillars.     Round  the  domes  of  its  roof 


220  ARCHITECTURE. 

the  light  enters  only  through  narrow  apertures 
like  large  stars;  and  here  and  there  a  ray  or  two 
from  some  far-away  casement  wanders  into  the 
darkness,  and  casts  a  narrow  phosphoric  stream 
upon  the  waves  of  marble  that  heave  and  fall  in 
a  thousand  colors  along  the  floor.  What  else 
there  is  of  light  is  from  torches,  or  silver  lamps, 
burning  carelessly  in  the  recesses  of  the  chapels; 
the  roof  sheeted  with  gold,  and  the  polished 
wall  covered  with  alabaster,  give  at  every  curve 
and  angle  some  feeble  gleaming  to  the  flames ; 
and  the  glories  around  the  heads  of  the  sculp- 
tured saints  flash  upon  us  as  we  pass  them,  and 
sink  into  the  gloom.  Under  foot  and  over  head 
a  continual  succession  of  crowded  imagery,  one 
picture  passing  into  another,  as  in  a  dream; 
forms  beautiful  and  terrible  mixed  together, 
dragons  and  serpents,  and  ravening  beasts  of 
prey,  and  graceful  birds  that  in  the  midst  of 
them  drink  from  running  fountains  and  feed 
from  vases  of  crystal;  the  passions  and  the 
pleasures  of  human  life  symbolised  together,  and 
the  mystery  of  its  redemption;  for  the  mazes  of 
interwoven  lines  and  changeful  pictures  lead 
always  at  least  to  the  Cross,  lifted  and  carved  in 
every  place  and  upon  every  stone  ;  sometimes 
with  the  serpent  of  eternity  wrapt  around  it, 
sometimes  with  doves  against  its  arms,  and  sweet 
herbage  growing  forth  from  its  feet;  but  con- 


THE   LAMP    OF  OBEDIENCE.  221 

spicuous  most  of  all  on  the  great  rood  that 
crosses  the  church  before  the  altar,  raised  in 
bright  blazonry  against  the  shadow  of  the  apse. 
And  although  in  the  recesses  of  the  aisles  and 
chapels,  when  the  mist  of  the  incense  hangs 
heavily,  we  may  see  continually  a  figure  traced 
in  faint  lines  upon  their  marble,  a  woman  stand- 
ing with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  the  in- 
scription above  her,  "Mother  of  God;"  she  is 
not  here  the  presiding  deity.  It  is  the  Cross 
that  is  first  seen,  and  always  burning  in  the 
centre  of  the  temple;  and  the  hollow  of  its  roof 
has  the  figure  of  Christ  in  the  utmost  height  of 
it,  raised  in  power,  or  returning  in  judgment. 

The  third  cupola,  that  over  the  altar,  repre- 
sents the  witness  of  the  Old  Testament  to  Christ, 
showing  him  enthroned  in  its  centre,  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  patriarchs  and  prophets.  But 
this  dome  was  little  seen  by  the  people ;  their 
contemplation  was  intended  to  be  chiefly  drawn 
to  that  of  the  centre  of  the  church,  and  thus 
the  mind  of  the  worshipper  was  at  once  fixed  on 
the  main  groundwork  and  hope  of  Christianity, 
— "  Christ  is  risen,"  and  "  Christ  shall  come." 
If  he  had  time  to  explore  the  minor  lateral 
chapels  and  cupolas,  he  could  find  in  them  the 
whole  series  of  New  Testament  history,  the 
events  of  the  Life  of  Christ,  and  the  apostolic 
miracles  in  their  order,  and  finally,  the  scenery 


222  ARCHITECTURE. 

of  the  Book  of  Revelation;  but  if  he  only  en- 
tered, as  often  the  common  people  do  this  hour, 
snatching  a  few  moments  before  beginning  the 
labor  of  the  day  to  offer  up  an  ejaculatory 
prayer,  and  advanced  but  from  the  main  en- 
trance as  far  as  the  altar  screen,  all  the  splendor 
of  the  glittering  nave  and  variegated  dome,  if 
they  smote  upon  his  heart,  as  they  might  often, 
in  strange  contrast  with  his  reed  cabin  among 
the  shallows  of  the  lagoon,  smote  upon  it  only 
that  they  might  proclaim  the  two  great  mes- 
sages—  "Christ  is  risen,"  and  "Christ  shall 
come."  Daily,  as  the  white  cupolas  rose  like 
wreaths  of  sea-foam  in  the  dawn,  while  the 
shadowy  campanile  and  frowning  palace  were 
still  withdrawn  into  the  night,  they  rose  with  the 
Easter  Voice  of  Triumph, — "  Christ  is  risen  ;" 
and  daily,  as  they  looked  down  upon  the  tumult 
of  the  people,  deepening  and  eddying  in  the 
wide  square  that  opened  from  their  feet  to  the 
sea,  they  uttered  above  them  the  sentence  of 
warning, — "  Christ  shall  come." 

And  this  thought  may  surely  dispose  the 
reader  to  look  with  some  change  of  temper  upon 
the  gorgeous  building  and  wild  blazonry  of  that 
shrine  of  St.  Mark's.  He  now  perceives  that  it 
was  in  the  hearts  of  the  old  Venetian  people  far 
more  than  a  place  of  worship.  It  was  at  once  a 
type  of  the  Redeemed  Church  of  God,   and  a 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  223 

scroll  for  the  written  word  of  God.  It  was  to 
be  to  them  both  an  image  of  the  Bride,  all  glo- 
rious within,  her  clothing  of  wrought  gold  ;  and 
the  actual  Table  of  the  Law  and  the  Testimony, 
written  within  and  without.  And  whether  hon- 
ored as  the  Church  or  as  the  Bible,  was  it  not 
fitting  that  neither  the  gold  nor  the  crystal 
should  be  spared  in  the  adornment  of  it;  that, 
as  the  symbol  of  the  Bride,  the  building  of  the 
wall  thereof  should  be  of  jasper,  and  the  foun- 
dations of  it  garnished  with  all  manner  of  pre- 
cious stones;  and  that,  as  the  channel  of  the 
Word,  that  triumphant  utterance  of  the  Psalmist 
should  be  true  of  it, — "  I  have  rejoiced  in  the 
way  of  thy  testimonies,  as  much  as  in  all  riches  "  ? 
And  shall  we  not  look  with  changed  temper 
down  the  long  perspective  of  St.  Mark's  Place 
toward  the  sevenfold  gates  and  glowing  domes 
of  its  temple,  when  we  know  with  what  solemn 
purpose  the  shafts  of  it  were  lifted  above  the 
pavement  of  the  popular  square  ?  Men  met 
there  from  all  countries  of  the  earth,  for  traffic 
or  for  pleasure;  but,  above  the  crowd  swaying 
for  ever  to  and  fro  in  the  restlessness  of  avarice 
or  thirst  of  delight,  was  seen  perpetually  the 
glory  of  the  temple,  attesting  to  them,  whether 
they  would  hear  or  whether  they  would  forbear, 
that  there  was  one  treasure  which  the  merchant- 
man might  buy  without  a  price,  and  one  delight 


224  ARCHITECTURE. 

better  than  all  others,  in  the  word  and  the  stat- 
utes of  God. 

Not  in  the  wantonness  of  wealth,  not  in  vain 
ministry  to  the  desire  of  the  eyes  or  the  pride 
of  life,  were  those  marbles  hewn  into  trans- 
parent strength,  and  those  arches  arrayed  in  the 
colors  of  the  iris.  There  is  a  message  written  in 
the  dyes  of  them,  that  once  was  written  in 
blood;  and  a  sound  in  the  echoes  of  their  vaults, 
that  one  day  shall  fill  the  vault  of  heaven, — 
"He  shall  return,  to  do  judgment  and  justice." 
The  strength  of  Venice  was  given  her,  so  long 
as  she  remembered  this  ;  her  destruction  found 
her  when  she  had  forgotten  this;  and  it  found 
her  irrevocably,  because  she  forgot  it  without 
excuse.  Never  had  a  city  a  more  glorious  Bible. 
Among  the  nations  of  the  North,  a  rude  and 
shadowy  sculpture  filled  their  temples  with  con- 
fused and  hardly  legible  imagery;  but,  for  her, 
the  skill  and  the  treasures  of  the  East  had  gilded 
every  letter,  and  illumined  every  page,  till  the 
Book-Temple  shone  from  afar  off  like  the  star 
of  the  Magi.  In  other  cities,  the  meetings  of 
the  people  were  often  in  places  withdrawn  from 
religious  association,  subject  to  violence  and  to 
change;  and  on  the  grass  of  the  dangerous  ram- 
part, and  in  the  dust  of  the  troubled  street, 
there  were  deeds  done  and  counsels  taken, 
which  if  we  cannot  justify,  we  may  sometimes 


THE   LAMP    OF  OBEDIENCE.  22$ 

forgive.  But  the  sins  of  Venice,  whether  in  her 
palace  or  in  her  piazza,  were  done  with  the 
Bible  at  her  right  hand.  The  walls  on  which  its 
testimony  was  written  were  separated  but  by  a 
few  inches  of  marble  from  those  which  guarded 
the  secrets  of  her  councils,  or  confined  the  vic- 
tims of  her  policy.  And  when  in  her  last  hours 
she  threw  off  all  shame  and  all  restraint,  and  the 
great  square  of  the  city  became  filled  with  the 
madness  of  the  whole  earth,  be  it  remembered 
how  much  her  sin  was  greater,  because  it  was 
done  in  the  face  of  the  House  of  God,  burning 
with  the  letters  of  His  Law.  Mountebank  and 
masquer  laughed  their  laugh  ;  and  went  their 
way;  and  a  silence  has  followed  them,  not  un- 
foretold;  for  amidst  them  all,  through  century 
after  century  of  gathering  vanity  and  festering 
guilt,  the  white  dome  of  St.  Mark's  had  uttered 
in  the  dead  ear  of  Venice,  "  Know  thou,  that 
for  all  these  things,  God  will  bring  thee  into 
judgment." 

Such,  then,  was  that  first  and  fairest  Venice 
which  rose  out  of  the  barrenness  of  the  lagoon, 
and  the  sorrow  of  her  people;  a  city  of  graceful 
arcades  and  gleaming  walls,  veined  with  azure 
and  warm  with  gold,  and  fretted  with  white 
sculpture  like  frost  upon  forest  branches  turned 
to  marble.  And  yet,  in  this  beauty  of  her  youth, 
she  was  no  city  of  thoughtless  pleasure.     There 


226  ARCHITECTURE. 

was  still  a  sadness  of  heart  upon  her,  and  a 
depth  of  devotion,  in  which  lay  all  her  strength. 
I  do  not  insist  upon  the  probable  religious  sig- 
nification of  many  of  the  sculptures  which  are 
now  difficult  of  interpretation;  but  the  temper 
which  made  the  cross  the  principal  ornament  of 
every  building  is  not  to  be  misunderstood,  nor 
can  we  fail  to  perceive,  in  many  of  the  minor 
sculptural  subjects,  meanings  perfectly  familiar 
to  the  mind  of  early  Christianity.  The  pea- 
cock, used  in  preference  to  every  other  kind  of 
bird,  is  the  well-known  symbol  of  the  resurrec- 
tion; and,  when  drinking  from  a  fountain  or 
from  a  font,  is,  I  doubt  not,  also  a  type  of  the 
new  life  received  in  faithful  baptism.  The  vine, 
used  in  preference  to  all  other  trees,  was  equally 
recognised  as,  in  all  cases,  a  type  either  of 
Christ  Himself  or  of  those  who  were  in  a  state 
of  visible  or  professed  union  with  Him.  The 
dove,  at  its  foot,  represents  the  coming  of  the 
Comforter;  and  even  the  groups  of  contending 
animals  had,  probably,  a  distinct  and  universally 
apprehended  reference  to  the  powers  of  evil. 
But  I  lay  no  stress  on  these  more  occult  mean- 
ings. The  principal  circumstance  which  marks 
the  seriousness  of  the  early  Venetian  mind  is 
perhaps  the  last  in  which  the  reader  would  sup- 
pose it  was  traceable  ; — that  love  of  bright  and 
pure  color  which,  in  a  modified  form,  was  after- 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  227 

wards  the  root  of  all  the  triumph  of  the  Vene- 
tian schools  of  painting,  but  which,  in  its  utmost 
simplicity,  was  .characteristic  of  the  Byzantine 
period  only ;  and  of  which,  therefore,  in  the 
close  of  our  review  of  that  period,  it  will  be  well 
that  we  should  truly  estimate  the  significance. 
The  fact  is,  we  none  of  us  enough  appreciate 
the  nobleness  and  sacredness  of  color.  Noth- 
ing is  more  common  than  to  hear  it  spoken  of 
as  a  subordinate  beauty, — nay,  even  as  the  mere 
source  of  a  sensual  pleasure;  and  we  might  al- 
most believe  that  we  were  daily  among  men 
who 

' '  Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospect  yields 
To  them,  their  verdure  from  the  fields; 
And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 
With  which  the  sun  his  setting  shrouds." 

But  it  is  not  so.  Such  expressions  are  used  for 
the  most  part  in  thoughtlessness;  and  if  the 
speakers  would  only  take  the  pains  to  imagine 
what  the  world  and  their  own  existence  would 
become,  if  the  blue  were  taken  from  the  sky, 
and  the  gold  from  the  sunshine,  and  the  verdure 
from  the  leaves,  and  the  crimson  from  the  blood 
which  is  the  life  of  man,  the  flush  from  the 
cheek,  the  darkness  from  the  eye,  the  radiance 
from  the  hair, — if  they  could  but  see,  for  an  in- 
stant, white  human  creatures  living  in  a  white 
world, — they  would  soon  feel  what  they  owe  to 


228  ARCHITECTURE. 

color.  The  fact  is,  that  of  all  God's  gifts  to 
the  sight  of  man,  color  is  the  holiest,  the  most 
divine,  the  most  solemn.  We  speak  rashly  of 
gay  color  and  sad  color,  for  color  cannot  at  once 
be  good  and  gay.  All  good  color  is  in  some 
degree  pensive,  the  loveliest  is  melancholy,  and 
the  purest  and  most  thoughtful  minds  are  those 
which  love  color  the  most. 

I  know  that  this  will  sound  strange  in  many 
ears,  and  will  be  especially  startling  to  those  who 
have  considered  the  subject  chiefly  with  refer- 
ence to  painting;  for  the  great  Venetian  schools 
of  color  are  not  usually  understood  to  be  either 
pure  or  pensive,  and  the  idea  of  its  pre-eminence 
is  associated  in  nearly  every  mind  with  the 
coarseness  of  Rubens,  and  the  sensualities  of 
Correggio  and  Titian.  But  a  more  comprehen- 
sive view  of  art  will  soon  correct  this  impression. 
It  will  be  discovered,  in  the  first  place,  that  the 
more  faithful  and  earnest  the  religion  of  the 
painter,  the  more  pure  and  prevalent  is  the  sys- 
tem of  his  color.  It  will  be  found,  in  the  second 
place,  that  where  color  becomes  a  primal  inten- 
tion with  a  painter  otherwise  mean  or  sensual,  it 
instantly  elevates  him,  and  becomes  the  one  sa- 
cred and  saving  element  in  his  work.  The  very 
depth  of  the  stoop  to  which  the  Venetian  paint- 
ers and  Rubens  sometimes  condescend,  is  a  con- 
sequence of  their  feeling  confidence  in  the  power 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE.  229 

of  their  color  to  keep  them  from  falling.  They 
hold  on  by  it,  as  by  a  chain  let  down  from  heaven, 
with  one  hand,  though  they  may  sometimes  seem 
to  gather  dust  and  ashes  with  the  other.  And,  in 
the  last  place,  it  will  be  found  that  so  surely  as 
a  painter  is  irreligious,  thoughtless,  or  obscene 
in  disposition,  so  surely  is  his  coloring  cold, 
gloomy,  and  valueless.  The  opposite  poles  of 
art  in  this  respect  are  Frit  Angelico  and  Salvator 
Rosa;  of  whom  the  one  was  a  man  who  smiled 
seldom,  wept  often,  prayed  constantly,  and  never 
harbored  an  impure  thought.  His  pictures  are 
simply  so  many  pieces  of  jewellery,  the  colors 
of  the  draperies  being  perfectly  pure,  as  various 
as  those  of  a  painted  window,  chastened  only  by 
paleness,  and  relieved  upon  a  gold  ground.  Sal- 
vator was  a  dissipated  jester  and  satirist,  a  man 
who  spent  his  life  in  masquing  and  revelry.  But 
his  pictures  are  full  of  horror,  and  their  color 
is  for  the  most  part  gloomy-gray.  Truly,  it 
would  seem  as  if  art  had  so  much  of  eternity  in 
it,  that  it  must  take  its  dye  from  the  close  rather 
than  the  course  of  life.  "  In  such  laughter  the 
heart  of  man  is  sorrowful,  and  the  end  of  that 
mirth  is  heaviness." 

These  are  no  singular  instances.  I  know  no 
law  more  severely  without  exception  than  this 
of  the  connection  of  pure  color  with  profound 
and  noble  thought.     The  late  Flemish  pictures, 


230  ARCHITECTURE. 

shallow  in  conception  and  obscure  in  subject, 
are  always  sombre  in  color.  But  the  early  re- 
ligious painting  of  the  Flemings  is  as  brilliant  in 
hue  as  it  is  holy  in  thought.  The  Bellinis, 
Francias,  Peruginos,  painted  in  crimson,  and 
blue,  and  gold.  The  Caraccis,  Guidos,  and  Rem- 
brandts  in  brown  and  gray.  The  builders  of 
our  great  cathedrals  veiled  their  casements  and 
wrapped  their  pillars  with  one  robe  of  purple 
splendor.  The  builders  of  the  luxurious  Renais- 
sance left  their  palaces  filled  only  with  cold  white 
light,  and  in  the  paleness  of  their  native  stone. 

Nor  does  it  seem  difficult  to  discern  a  noble 
reason  for  this  universal  law.  In  that  heavenly 
circle  which  binds  the  statutes  of  color  upon  the 
front  of  the  sky,  when  it  became  the  sign  of  the 
covenant  of  peace,  the  pure  hues  of  divided 
light  were  sanctified  to  the  human  heart  for 
ever,  nor  this,  it  would  seem,  by  mere  arbitrary 
appointment,  but  in  consequence  of  the  fore- 
ordained and  marvellous  constitution  of  those 
hues  into  a  sevenfold,  or,  more  strictly  still,  a 
threefold  order,  typical  of  the  Divine  nature  it- 
self. 

The  whole  church  of  St.  Mark's  was  a  great 
Book  of  Common  Prayer,  the  mosaics  were  its 
illuminations,  and  the  common  people  of  the 
time  were  taught  their  scripture  history  by  means 
of  them,  more  impressively  perhaps,  though  far 


GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE.  23 1 

less  fully,  than  ours  are  now  by  scripture  read- 
ing. They  had  no  other  bible — and  Protestants 
do  not  often  enough  consider  this — could  have 
no  other.  We  find  it  somewhat  difficult  to  fur- 
nish our  poor  with  printed  bibles;  consider  what 
the  difficulty  must  have  been  when  they  could 
be  given  only  in  manuscript.  The  walls  of  the 
church  necessarily  became  the  poor  man's  Bible, 
and  a  picture  was  more  easily  read  upon  the 
walls  than  a  chapter. 


GOTHIC    ARCHITECTURE. 

We  all  have  some  notion,  most  of  us  a  very 
determined  one,  of  the  meaning  of  the  term 
Gothic;  but  I  know  that  many  persons  have 
this  idea  in  their  minds  without  being  able  to 
define  it:  that  is  to  say,  understanding  generally 
that  Westminster  Abbey  is  Gothic,  and  St.  Paul's 
is  not,  that  Strasburgh  Cathedral  is  Gothic  and 
St.  Peter's  is  not,  they  have,  nevertheless,  no 
clear  notion  of  what  it  is  that  they  recognise  in 
one  or  miss  in  the  other,  such  as  would  enable 
them  to  say  how  far  the  work  at  Westminster  or 
Strasburgh  is  good  and  pure  of  its  kind;  still  less 
to  say  of  any  nondescript  building,  like  St. 
James's   Palace   or  Windsor  Castle,  how  much 


232  ARCHITECTURE. 

right  Gothic  element  there  is  in  it,  and  how 
much  wanting.  And  I  believe  this  inquiry  to 
be  a  pleasant  and  profitable  one,  and  that  there 
will  be  found  something  more  than  usually  inter- 
esting in  tracing  out  this  gray,  shadowy,  many 
pinnacled  image  of  the  Gothic  spirit  within  us; 
and  discerning  what  fellowship  there  is  between 
it  and  our  Northern  hearts.  And  if,  at  any 
point  of  the  inquiry,  I  should  interfere  with  any 
of  the  reader's  previously  formed  conceptions, 
and  use  the  term  Gothic  in  any  sense  which  he 
would  not  willingly  attach  to  it,  I  do  not  ask 
him  to  accept,  but  only  to  examine  and  under- 
stand my  interpretation,  as  necessary  to  the  in- 
telligibility of  what  follows. 

We  have,  then,  the  Gothic  character  sub- 
mitted to  our  analysis,  just  as  the  rough  mineral 
is  substituted  to  that  of  the  chemist,  entangled 
with  many  other  foreign  substances,  itself  per- 
haps in  no  place  pure,  or  ever  to  be  obtained  or 
seen  in  purity  for  more  than  an  instant;  but 
nevertheless  a  thing  of  definite  and  separate 
nature,  however  inextricable  or  confused  in  ap- 
pearance. Now  observe:  the  chemist  defines 
his  mineral  by  two  separate  kinds  of  characters; 
one  external,  its  crystalline  form,  hardness,  lus- 
tre, etc.;  the  other,  internal;  the  proportions 
and  nature  of  its  constituent  atoms.  Exactly 
in  the  same  manner,  we  shall  find  that  Gothic 


GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE.  233 

architecture  has  external  forms,  and  internal 
elements.  Its  elements  are  certain  mental  ten- 
dencies of  the  builders,  legibly  expressed  in  it; 
as  fancifulness,  love  of  variety,  love  of  richness, 
and  such  others.  Its  external  forms  are  pointed 
arches,  vaulted  roofs,  etc.  And  unless  both  the 
elements  and  the  forms  are  there,  we  have  no 
right  to  call  the  style  Gothic.  It  is  not  enough 
that  it  has  the  Form,  if  it  have  not  also  the 
power  and  life.  It  is  not  enough  that  it  has  the 
Power,  if  it  have  not  the  form.  We  must  there- 
fore inquire  into  each  of  these  characters  suc- 
cessively; and  determine,  first,  what  is  the 
Mental  Expression,  and  secondly,  what  the 
Material  Form,  of  Gothic  Architecture,  properly 
so  called. 

1st.  Mental  Power  or  Expression.  What 
characters,  we  have  to  discover,  did  the  Gothic 
builders  love,  or  instinctively  express  in  their 
work,  as  distinguished  from  all  other  builders  ? 

Let  us  go  back  for  a  moment  to  our  chemis- 
try, and  note  that,  in  defining  a  mineral  by  its 
constituent  parts,  it  is  not  one  nor  another  of 
them  that  can  make  up  the  mineral,  but  the 
union  of  all:  for  instance,  it  is  neither  in  char- 
coal, nor  in  oxygen,  nor  in  lime,  that  there  is  the 
making  of  chalk,  but  in  the  combination  of  all 
three  in  certain  measures;  they  are  all  found  in 
very  different  things  from  chalk,  and  there  is 


234  ARCHITECTURE. 

nothing  like  chalk  either  in  charcoal  or  in  oxy- 
gen, but  they  are  nevertheless  necessary  to  its 
existence. 

So  in  various  mental  characters  which  make 
up  the  soul  of  Gothic.  It  is  not  one  nor  an- 
other that  produces  it,  but  their  union  in  certain 
measures.  Each  one  of  them  is  found  in  many 
other  architectures  besides  Gothic;  but  Gothic 
cannot  exist  where  they  are  not  found,  or,  at 
least,  where  their  place  is  not  in  some  way  sup- 
plied. Only  there  is  this  great  difference  be- 
tween the  composition  of  the  mineral,  and  of 
the  architectural  style,  that  if  we  withdraw  one 
of  its  elements  from  the  stone,  its  form  is  utterly 
changed,  and  its  existence  as  such  and  such  a 
mineral  is  destroyed;  but  if  we  withdraw  one  of 
its  mental  elements  from  the  Gothic  style,  it  is 
only  a  little  less  Gothic  than  it  was  before,  and 
the  union  of  two  or  three  of  its  elements  is 
enough  already  to  bestow  a  certain  Gothicness 
of  character  which  gains  in  intensity  as  we  add 
the  others,  and  loses  as  we  again  withdraw 
them. 

I  believe,  then,  that  the  characteristic  or 
moral  elements  of  Gothic  are  the  following, 
placed  in  the  order  of  their  importance: 

i.  Savageness.  4.  Grotesqueness. 

2.  Changefulness.        5.  Rigidity. 

3.  Naturalism.  6.  Redundance. 


GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE.  235 

These  characters  are  here  expressed  as  be- 
longing to  the  buildings  ;  as  belonging  to  the 
builder,  they  would  be  expressed  thus: — 1.  Sav- 
ageness  or  Rudeness.  2.  Love  of  Change.  3. 
Love  of  Nature.  4.  Disturbed  Imagination.  5. 
Obstinacy.  6.  Generosity.  And  I  repeat,  that 
the  withdrawal  of  any  one,  or  any  two,  will  not 
at  once  destroy  the  Gothic  character  of  a  build- 
ing, but  the  removal  of  a  majority  of  them  will. 

I  am  not  sure  when  the  word  "  Gothic  "  was 
first  generally  applied  to  the  architecture  of  the 
North;  but  I  presume  that,  whatever  the  date 
of  its  original  usage,  it  was  intended  to  imply 
reproach,  and  express  the  barbaric  character  of 
the  nations  among  whom  that  architecture  arose. 
It  never  implied  that  they  were  literally  of 
Gothic  lineage,  far  less  that  their  architecture 
had  been  originally  invented  by  the  Goths  them- 
selves; but  it  did  imply  that  they  and  their 
buildings  together  exhibited  a  degree  of  stern- 
ness and  rudeness  which,  in  contradistinction  to 
the  character  of  Southern  and  Eastern  nations, 
appeared  like  a  perpetual  reflection  of  the  con- 
trast between  the  Goth  and  Roman  in  their  first 
encounter.  And  when  that  fallen  Roman,  in 
the  utmost  impotence  of  his  luxury,  and  inso- 
lence of  his  guilt,  became  the  model  for  the  imi- 
tation of  civilized  Europe,  at  the  close  of  the  so- 
called  Dark  ages,  the  word   Gothic   became  a 


236  ARCHITECTURE. 

terra  of  unmitigated  contempt,  not  unmixed 
with  aversion.  From  that  contempt,  by  the 
exertion  of  the  antiquaries  and  architects  of  this 
century,  Gothic  architecture  has  been  suffi- 
ciently vindicated;  and  perhaps  some  among  us, 
in  our  admiration  of  the  magnificent  science  of 
its  structure  and  sacredness  of  its  expression, 
might  desire  that  the  term  of  ancient  reproach 
should  be  withdrawn,  and  some  other,  of  more 
apparent  honorableness,  adopted  in  its  place. 
There  is  no  chance,  as  there  is  no  need,  of  such 
a  substitution.  As  far  as  the  epithet  was  used 
scornfully,  it  was  used  falsely;  but  there  is  no 
reproach  in  the  word  rightly  understood;  on  the 
contrary,  there  is  a  profound  truth,  which  the. 
instinct  of  mankind  almost  unconsciously  recog- 
nises. 

It  is  true,  greatly  and  deeply  true,  that  the 
architecture  of  the  North  is  rude  and  wild;  but 
it  is  not  true  that,  for  this  reason,  we  are  to  con- 
demn it,  or  despise.  Far  otherwise:  I  believe  it 
is  in  this  very  character  that  it  deserves  out 
profoundest  reverence. 


THE   GROTESQUE.  2tf 


THE    GROTESQUE. 


The  grotesque  which  comes  to  all  men  in  a 
disturbed  dream,  is  the  most  intelligible  example 
(of  the  error  and  wildness  of  the  mental  impres- 
sions caused  by  fear  operating  upon  strong 
powers  of  imagination)  but  also  the  most  igno- 
ble; the  imagination,  in  this  instance,  being  en- 
tirely deprived  of  all  aid  from  reason,  and  incap- 
able of  self-government.  I  believe,  however, 
that  the  noblest  forms  of  imaginative  power  are 
also  in  some  sort  ungovernable,  and  have  in 
them  something  of  the  character  of  dreams;  so 
that  the  vision,  of  whatever  kind,  comes  un- 
called, and  will  not  submit  itself  to  the  seer,  but 
conquers  him,  and  forces  him  to  speak  as  a 
prophet,  having  no  power  over  his  words  or 
thoughts.  Only,  if  the  whole  man  be  trained 
perfectly,  and  his  mind  calm,  consistent,  and 
powerful,  the  vision  which  comes  to  him  is  seen 
as  in  a  perfect  mirror,  serenely,  and  in  consist- 
ence with  the  rational  powers;  but  if  the  mind 
be  imperfect  and  ill  trained,  the  vision  is  seen 
as  in  a  broken  mirror,  with  strange  distortions 
and  discrepancies,  all  the  passions  of  the  heart 
breathing  upon  it  in  cross  ripples,  till  hardly  a 
trace  of  it  remains  unbroken.  So  that,  strictly 
speaking,  the  imagination  is  never  governed;  it 


238  ARCHITECTURE. 

is  always  the  ruling  and  Divine  power:  and  the 
rest  of  the  man  is  to  it  only  as  an  instrument 
which  it  sounds,  or  a  tablet  on  which  it  writes; 
clearly  and  sublimely  if  the  wax  be  smooth  and 
the  strings  true,  grotesquely  and  wildly  if  they 
are  strained  and  broken.  And  thus  the  "  Iliad," 
the  "  Inferno,"  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  the 
"  Faerie  Queene,"  are  all  of  them  true  dreams; 
only  the  sleep  of  the  men  to  whom  they  came 
was  the  deep,  living  sleep  which  God  sends,  with 
a  sacredness  in  it  as  of  death,  the  revealer  of 
secrets. 

Now  observe  in  this  matter,  carefully,  the 
difference  between  a  dim  mirror  and  a  distorted 
one;  and  do  not  blame  me  for  pressing  the 
analogy  too  far,  for  it  will  enable  me  to  explain 
my  meaning  every  way  more  clearly.  Most 
men's  minds  are  dim  mirrors,  in  which  all  truth 
is  seen,  as  St.  Paul  tells  us,  darkly:  this  is  the 
fault  most  common  and  most  fatal;  dulness  of 
the  heart  and  mistiness  of  sight,  increasing  to 
utter  hardness  and  blindness;  Satan  breathing 
upon  the  glass,  so  that,  if  we  do  not  sweep  the 
mist  laboriously  away,  it  will  take  no  image. 
But,  even  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  do  this,  we 
have  still  the  distortion  to  fear,  yet  not  to  the 
same  extent,  for  we  can  in  some  sort  allow  for 
the  distortion  of  an  image,  if  only  we  can  see  it 
clearly.     And  the  fallen  human  soul,  at  its  best,, 


THE    GROTESQUE.  239 

must  be  as  a  diminishing  glass,  and  that  a  broken 
one,  to  the  mighty  truths  of  the  universe  around 
it;  and  the  wider  the  scope  of  its  glance,  and 
the  vaster  the  truths  into  which  it  obtains  an 
insight,  the  more  fantastic  their  distortion  is 
likely  to  be,  as  the  winds  and  the  vapors  trouble 
the  field  of  the  telescope  most  when  it  reaches 
farthest. 

It  is  not,  however,  in  every  symbolical  subject 
that  the  fearful  grotesque  becomes  embodied  to 
the  full.  The  element  of  distortion  which  af- 
fects the  intellect  when  dealing  with  subjects 
above  its  proper  capacity,  is  as  nothing  com- 
pared with  that  which  it  sustains  from  the 
direct  impressions  of  terror.  It  is  the  trembling 
of  the  human  soul  in  the  presence  of  death 
which  most  of  all  disturbs  the  images  on  the 
intellectual  mirror,  and  invests  them  with  the 
fitfulness  and  ghastliness  of  dreams.  And  from 
the  contemplation  of  death,  and  of  the  pangs 
which  follow  his  footsteps,  arise  in  men's  hearts 
the  troop  of  strange  and  irresistible  supersti- 
tions, which,  more  or  less  melancholy  or  majes- 
tic according  to  the  dignity  of  the  mind  they 
impress,  are  yet  never  without  a  certain  gro- 
tesqueness,  following  on  the  paralysis  of  the 
reason  and  over-excitement  of  the  fancy.  I  do 
not  mean  to  deny  the  actual  existence  of  spirit- 
ual manifestations:  I   have  never  weighed  the 


240  ARCHITECTURE. 

evidence  upon  the  subject;  but  with  these,  if 
such  exist,  we  are  not  here  concerned.  The 
grotesque  which  we  are  examining  arises  out  of 
that  condition  of  mind  which  appears  to  follow 
naturally  upon  the  contemplation  of  death,  and 
in  which  the  fancy  is  brought  into  morbid 
action  by  terror,  accompanied  by  the  belief  in 
spiritual  presence,  and  in  the  possibility  of  spir- 
itual apparition.  Hence  are  developed  its  most 
sublime,  because  its  least  voluntary,  creations, 
aided  by  the  fearfulness  of  the  phenomena  of 
nature  which  are  in  any  wise  the  ministers  of 
death,  and  primarily  directed  by  the  peculiar 
ghastliness  of  expression  in  the  skeleton,  itself  a 
species  of  terrible  grotesque  in  its  relation  to 
the  perfect  human  frame. 

Thus,  first  born  from  the  dusty  and  dreadful 
whiteness  of  the  charnel  house,  but  softened  in 
their  forms  by  the  holiest  of  human  affections, 
went  forth  the  troop  of  wild  and  wonderful 
images,  seen  through  tears,  that  had  the  mas- 
tery over  our  Northern  hearts  for  so  many  ages. 
The  powers  of  sudden  destruction  lurking  in  the 
woods  and  waters,  in  the  rocks  and  clouds; — 
kelpie  and  gnome,  Lurlei  and  Hartz  spirits:  the 
wraith  and  foreboding  phantom;  the  spectra  of 
second  sight;  the  various  conceptions  of  aveng- 
ing or  tormented  ghost,  haunting  the  perpetra- 
tor of  crime,  or  expiating  its  commission;  and 


THE   GROTESQUE.  24 1 

the  half  fictitious  and  contemplative,  half  vi- 
sionary and  believed  images  of  the  presence  of 
death  itself,  doing  its  daily  work  in  the  cham- 
bers of  sickness  and  sin,  and  waiting  for  its  hour 
in  the  fortalices  of  strength  and  the  high  places 
of  pleasure; — these,  partly  degrading  us  by  the 
instinctive  and  paralysing  terror  with  which 
they  are  attended,  and  partly  ennobling  us  by 
leading  our  thoughts  to  dwell  in  the  eternal 
world,  fill  the  last  and  the  most  important  circle 
in  that  great  kingdom  of  dark  and  distorted 
power,  of  which  we  all  must  be  in  some  sort  the 
subjects  until  mortality  shall  be  swallowed  up 
of  life;  until  the  waters  of  the  last  fordless  river 
cease  to  roll  their  untransparent  volume  between 
us  and  the  light  of  heaven,  and  neither  death 
stand  between  us  and  our  brethren,  nor  symbols 
between  us  and  our  God. 

If,  then,  ridding  ourselves  as  far  as  possible 
of  prejudices  owing  merely  to  the  school-teach- 
ing which  remains  from  the  system  of  the  Re- 
naissance, we  set  ourselves  to  discover  in  what 
races  the  human  soul,  taken  all  in  all,  reached 
its  highest  magnificence,  we  shall  find,  I  believe, 
two  great  families  of  men,  one  of  the  East  and 
South,  the  other  of  the  West  and  North:  the 
one  including  the  Egyptians,  Jews,  Arabians, 
Assyrians,  and  Persians;  the  other  I  know  not 


242  ARCHITECTURE. 

whence  derived,  but  seeming  to  flow  forth  from 
Scandinavia,  and  filling  the  whole  of  Europe 
with  its  Norman  and  Gothic  energy.  And  in 
both  these  families,  wherever  they  are  seen  in.' 
their  utmost  nobleness,  there  the  grotesque  is 
developed  in  its  utmost  energy;  and  I  hardly 
know  whether  most  to  admire  the  winged  bulls 
of  Nineveh,  or  the  winged  dragons  of  Verona. 

The  charts  of  the  world  which  have  been 
drawn  up  by  modern  science  have  thrown  into  a 
narrow  space  the  expression  of  a  vast  amount 
of  knowledge,  but  I  have  never  yet  seen  any 
one  pictorial  enough  to  enable  the  spectator  to 
imagine  the  kind  of  contrast  in  physical  charac- 
ter which  exists  between  northern  and  southern 
countries.  We  know  the  differences  in  detail, 
but  we  have  not  that  broad  glance  and  grasp 
which  would  enable  us  to  feel  them  in  their  ful- 
ness. We  know  that  gentians  grow  on  the  Alps, 
and  olives  on  the  Apennines;  but  we  do  not 
enough  conceive  for  ourselves  that  variegated 
mosaic  of  the  world's  surface  which  a  bird  sees 
in  its  migration,  that  difference  between  the 
district  of  the  gentian  and  of  the  olive  which 
the  stork  and  the  swallow  see  far  off,  as  they 
lean  upon  the  sirocco  wind.  Let  us,  for  a  mo- 
ment, try  to  raise  ourselves  even  above  the  level 
of  their  flight,  and  imagine  the  Mediterranean 


THE   GROTESQUE.  243 

lying  beneath  us  like  an  irregular  lake,  and  all 
its  ancient  promontories  sleeping  in  the  sun; 
here  and  there  -an  angry  spot  of  thunder,  a  gray 
stain  of  storm,  moving  upon  the  burning  field; 
and  here  and  there  a  fixed  wreath  of  white  vol- 
cano smoke,  surrounded  by  its  circle  of  ashes; 
but  for  the  most  part  a  great  peacefulness  of 
light,  Syria  and  Greece,  Italy  and  Spain,  laid 
like  pieces  of  golden  pavement  into  the  sea-blue, 
chased,  as  we  stoop  near  to  them,  with  bossy  beat- 
en work  of  mountain  chains,  and  glowing  softly 
with  terraced  gardens,  and  flowers  heavy  with 
frankincense,  mixed  among  masses  of  laurel,  and 
orange,  and  plumy  palm,  that  abate  with  their 
gray-green  shadows  the  burning  of  the  marble 
rocks,  and  of  the  ledges  of  porphyry  sloping 
under  lucent  sand.  Then  let  us  pass  farther 
towards  the  north,  until  we  see  the  orient  colors 
change  gradually  into  a  vast  belt  of  rainy  green, 
where  the  pastures  of  Switzerland,  and  poplar 
valleys  of  France,  and  dark  forests  of  the 
Danube  and  Carpathians  stretch  from  the 
mouths  of  the  Loire  to  those  of  the  Volga,  seen 
through  clefts  in  gray  swirls  of  rain-cloud  and 
flaky  veils  of  the  mist  of  the  brooks,  spreading 
low  along  the  pasture  lands,  and  then,  farther 
north  still,  to  see  the  earth  heave  into  mighty 
masses  of  leaden  rock  and  heathy  moor,  border- 
ing with  a  broad  waste  of  gloomy  purple  that 


244  ARCHITECTURE. 

6elt  of  field  and  wood,  and  splintering  into  irreg- 
ular and  grisly  islands  amidst  the  northern  seas, 
beaten  by  storm,  and  chilled  by  ice-drift,  and 
tormented  by  furious  pulses  of  contending  tide, 
until  the  roots  of  the  last  forests  fail  from 
among  the  hill  ravines,  and  the  hunger  of  the 
north  wind  bites  their  peaks  into  barrenness,  and. 
at  last,  the  wall  of  ice  durable  like  iron,  sets, 
death-like,  its  white  teeth  against  us  out  of  the 
polar  twilight.  And,  having  once  traversed  in 
thought  this  gradation  of  the  zoned  iris  of  the 
earth  in  all  its  material  vastness,  let  us  go  down 
nearer  to  it,  and  watch  the  parallel  change  in  the 
belt  of  animal  life  :  the  multitudes  of  swift  and 
brilliant  creatures  that  glance  in  the  air  and  sea, 
or  tread  the  sands  of  the  southern  zone  ;  striped 
zebras  and  spotted  leopards,  glistening  serpents, 
and  birds  arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet.  Let  us 
contrast  their  delicacy  and  brilliancy  of  color, 
and  swiftness  of  motion,  with  the  frost-cramped 
strength,  and  shaggy  covering,  and  dusky  plum- 
age of  the  northern  tribes  ;  contrast  the  Arabian 
horse  with  the  Shetland,  the  tiger  and  leopard 
with  the  wolf  and  bear,  the  antelope  with  the 
elk,  the  bird  of  paradise  with  the  osprey  ;  and 
then,  submissively  acknowledging  the  great  laws 
by  which  the  earth  and  all  that  it  bears  are  ruled 
throughout  their  being,  let  us  not  condemn, 
but  rejoice  in  the  expression  by  man  of  his  own 


THE    GROTESQUE.  245 

rest  in  the  statutes  of  the  land  that  gave  him 
birth.  Let  us  watch  him  with  reverence  as  he 
sets  side  by  side,  the  burning  gems,  and  smooths 
with  soft  sculpture  the  jasper  pillars,  that  are  to 
reflect  a  ceaseless  sunshine,  and  rise  into  a  cloud- 
less sky  ;  but  not  with  less  reverence  let  us  stand 
by  him,  when,  with  rough  strength  and  hurried 
stroke,  he  smites  an  uncouth  animation  out  of 
the  rocks  which  he  has  torn  from  among  the 
moss  of  the  moorland,  and  heaves  into  the 
darkened  air  the  pile  of  iron  buttress  and  rugged 
wall,  instinct  with  work  of  an  imagination  as 
wild  and  wayward  as  the  northern  sea,  creations 
of  ungainly  shape  and  rigid  limb  but  full  of 
wolfish  life  ;  fierce  as  the  winds  that  beat,  and 
changeful  as  the  clouds  that  shade  them. 

In  one  point  of  view  Gothic  is  not  only  the 
best  but  the  only  rational  architecture,  as  being 
that  which  can  fit  itself  most  easily  to  all  ser- 
vices, vulgar  or  noble.  Undefined  in  its  slope  of 
roof,  height  of  shaft,  breadth  of  arch,  or  disposi- 
tion of  ground  plan,  it  can  shrink  into  a  turret, 
expand  into  a  hall,  coil  into  a  staircase,  or  spring 
into  a  spire,  with  undegraded  grace  and  unex- 
hausted energy  ;  and  whenever  it  finds  occasion 
for  change  in  its  form  or  purpose,  it  submits  to 
it  without  the  slightest  sense  of  loss  either  to  its 
unity  or  majesty, — subtle  and  flexible  like  a  fiery 


246  ARCHITECTURE. 

serpent,  but  ever  attentive  to  the  voice  of  the 
charmer.  And  it  is  one  of  the  chief  virtues  of 
the  Gothic  builders,  that  they  never  suffered 
ideas  of  outside  symmetries  and  consistencies 
to  interfere  with  the  real  use  and  value  of  what 
they  did.  If  they  wanted  a  window,  they 
opened  one  ;  a  room,  they  added  one  ;  a  buttress, 
they  built  one  ;  utterly  regardless  of  any  estab- 
lished conventionalities  of  external  appearance, 
knowing  (as  indeed  it  always  happened)  that 
such  daring  interruptions  of  the  formal  plan 
would  rather  give  additional  interest  to  its  sym- 
metry than  injure  it.  So  that,  in  the  best  times 
of  Gothic,  a  useless  window  would  rather  have 
been  opened  in  an  unexpected  place  for  the 
sake  of  the  surprise,  than  a  useful  one  forbidden 
for  the  sake  of  symmetry.  Every  successive 
architect,  employed  upon  a  great  work,  built  the 
pieces  he  added  in  his  own  way,  utterly  regard- 
less of  the  style  adopted  by  his  predecessors  ; 
and  if  two  towers  were  raised  in  nominal  corres- 
pondence at  the  sides  of  a  cathedral  front,  one 
was  nearly  sure  to  be  different  from  the  other, 
and  in  each  the  style  at  the  top  to  be  different 
from  the  style  at  the  bottom. 

The  most  striking  outward  feature  in  all  Gothic 
architecture  is,  that  it  is  composed  of  pointed 
arches,  as  in  Romanesque  that  it  is  in  like  man- 


THE    GROTESQUE.  247 

ner  composed  of  round :  and  this  distinction 
would  be  quite  as  clear,  though  the  roofs  were 
taken  off  every  cathedral  in  Europe.  And  yet, 
if  we  examine  carefully  into  the  real  force  and 
meaning  of  the  term  "  roof,"  we  shall,  perhaps, 
be  able  to  retain  the  old  popular  idea  in  a  defini- 
tion of  Gothic  architecture,  which  shall  also  ex- 
press whatever  dependence  that  architecture  has 
upon  true  forms  of  roofing. 

Roofs  are  generally  divided  into  two  parts  ; 
the  roof  proper,  that  is  to  say,  the  shell,  vault, 
or  ceiling,  internally  visible  ;  and  the  roof-mask, 
which  protects  this  lower  roof  from  the  weather. 
In  some  buildings  these  parts  are  united  in  one 
frame-work  ;  but  in  most  they  are  more  or  less 
independent  of  each  other,  and  in  nearly  all 
Gothic  buildings  there  is  a  considerable  interval 
between  them. 

Now  it  will  often  happen,  that  owing  to  the 
nature  of  the  apartments  required,  or  the  mate- 
rials at  hand,  the  roof  proper  maybe  flat,  coved, 
or  domed,  in  buildings  which  in  their  walls  em- 
ploy pointed  arches,  and  are,  in  the  straitest 
sense  of  the  word,  Gothic  in  all  other  respects. 
Yet  so  far  forth  as  the  roofing  alone  is  concerned, 
they  are  not  Gothic  unless  the  pointed  arch  be 
the  principal  form  adopted  either  in  the  stone 
vaulting  or  the  timbers  of  the  roof  proper. 

I  shall  say  then,  in  the  first  place,  that  "  Gothic 


248  ARCHITECTURE. 

architecture  is  that  which  uses,  if  possible,  the 
pointed  arch  in  the  roof  proper."  This  is  the 
first  step  in  our  definition. 

Secondly.  Although  there  may  be  many  ad- 
visable or  necessary  forms  for  the  lower  roof  or 
ceiling,  there  is,  in  cold  countries  exposed  to 
rain  and  snow,  only  one  advisable  form  for  the 
roof -mask,  and  that  is  the  gable,  for  this  alone 
will  throw  off  both  rain  and  snow  from  all  parts 
of  its  surface  as  speedily  as  possible.  Snow  can 
lodge  on  the  top  of  a  dome,  not  on  the  ridge  of 
a  gable.  And  thus,  as  far  as  roofing  is  concerned, 
the  gable  is  a  far  more  essential  feature  of 
Northern  architecture  than  the  pointed  vault, 
for  the  one  is  a  thorough  necessity,  the  other 
often  a  grateful  conventionality  ;  the  gable  oc- 
curs in  the  timber-roof  of  every  dwelling-house 
and  every  cottage,  but  not  the  vault  ;  and  the 
gable  built  on  a  polygonal  or  circular  plan,  is  the 
origin  of  the  turret  and  spire  ;  and  all  the  so- 
called  aspiration  of  Gothic  architecture  is 
nothing  more  than  its  development.  So  that 
we  must  add  to  our  definition  another  clause, 
which  will  be  at  present  by  far  the  most  impor- 
tant, and  it  will  stand  thus  :  "  Gothic  architect- 
ure is  that  which  uses  the  pointed  arch  for  the 
roof  proper,  and  the  gable  for  the  roof-mask." 

And  here,  in  passing,  let  us  notice  a  principle 
as  true  in  architecture  as  in  morals.     It  is  not 


THE   GROTESQUE.  249 

the  compelled,  but  the  wilful,  transgression  of 
iaw  which  corrupts  the  character.  Sin  is  not  in 
the  act,  but  in  the  choice.  It  is  a  law  for  Gothic 
architecture,  that  it  shall  use  the  pointed  arch 
for  its  roof  proper  ;  but  because,  in  many  cases 
of  domestic  building,  this  becomes  impossible 
for  want  of  room  (the  whole  height  of  the  apart- 
ment being  required  every  where),  or  in  various 
other  ways  inconvenient,  flat  ceilings  may  be 
used,  and  yet  the  Gothic  shall  not  lose  its  purity. 
But  in  the  roof -mask  there  can  be  no  necessity 
nor  reason  for  a  change  of  form  :  the  gable  is 
the  best ;  and  if  any  other — dome,  or  bulging 
crown,  or  whatsoever  else — be  employed  at  all, 
it  must  be  in  pure  caprice  and  wilful  transgres- 
sion of  law.  And  wherever,  therefore,  this  is 
done,  the  Gothic  has  lost  its  character  ;  it  is 
pure  Gothic  no  more. 

I  plead  for  the  introduction  of  the  Gothic 
form  into  our  domestic  architecture,  not  merely 
because  it  is  lovely,  but  because  it  is  the  only 
form  of  faithful,  strong,  enduring,  and  honorable 
building,  in  such  materials  as  come  daily  to  our 
hands.  By  an  increase  of  scale  and  costs  it  is 
impossible  to  build,  in  any  style,  what  will  last 
for  ages;  but  only  in  the  Gothic  is  it  possible  to 
give  security  and  dignity  to  work  wrought  with 
imperfect  means  and    materials.     And   I  trust 


25O  ARCHITECTURE. 

that  there  will  come  a  time  when  the  English 
people  may  see  the  folly  of  building  basely  and 
insecurely.  It  is  common  with  those  architects 
against  whose  practice  my  writings  have  hither- 
to been  directed,  to  call  them  merely  theoretical 
and  imaginative.  I  answer,  that  there  is  not  a 
single  principle  asserted  either  in  the  "  Seven 
Lamps"  or  here,  but  is  of  the  simplest,  sternest 
veracity,  and  the  easiest  practicability  ;  that 
buildings,  raised  as  I  would  have  them,  would 
stand  unshaken  for  a  thousand  years;  and  the 
buildings  raised  by  the  architects  who  oppose 
them  will  not  stand  for  one  hundred  and  fifty, 
they  sometimes  do  not  stand  for  an  hour. 
There  is  hardly  a  week  passes  without  some 
catastrophe  brought  about  by  the  base  princi- 
ples of  modern  building  :  some  vaultless  floor 
that  drops  the  staggering  crowd  through  the 
jagged  rents  of  its  rotten  timbers;  some  baseless 
bridge  that  is  washed  away  by  the  first  wave  of 
a  common  flood;  some  fungous  wall  of  nascent 
rottenness  that  a  thunder-shower  soaks  down 
with  its  workmen  into  a  heap  of  slime  and 
death.  These  we  hear  of,  day  by  day  ;  yet 
these  indicate  but  a  thousandth  part  of  the  evil. 
The  portion  of  the  national  income  sacrificed  in 
mere  bad  building,  in  the  perpetual  repairs,  and 
swift  condemnation  and  pulling  down  of  ill-built 
shells   of   houses,  passes  all   calculation.     And 


THE   RENAISSANCE.  251 

the  weight  of  the  penalty  is  not  yet  felt;  it  will 
tell  upon  our  children  some  fifty  years  hence, 
when- the  cheap  work,  and  contract  work,  and 
stucco  and  plaster  work,  and  bad  iron  work,  and 
all  the  other  expedients  of  modern  rivalry, 
vanity,  and  dishonesty,  begin  to  show  them- 
selves for  what  they  are. 


THE    RENAISSANCE. 

Although  Renaissance  architecture  assumes 
very  different  forms  among  different  nations,  it 
may  be  conveniently  referred  to  three  heads  : — 
Early  Renaissance,  consisting  of  the  first  cor- 
ruptions introduced  into  the  Gothic  schools : 
Central  or  Roman  Renaissance,  which  is  the 
perfectly  formed  style;  and  Grotesque  Renais- 
sance, which  is  the  corruption  of  the  Renaissance 
itself. 

Now,  in  order  to  do  full  justice  to  the  ad- 
verse cause,  we  will  consider  the  abstract  nature 
of  the  school  with  reference  only  to  its  best  or 
central  examples.  The  forms  of  building  which 
must  be  classed  generally  under  the  term  early 
Renaissance  are,  in  many  cases,  only  the  ex- 
travagances and  corruptions  of  the  languid 
Gothic,  for  whose  errors  the  classical  principle 


252  ARCHITECTURE. 

is  in  no  wise  answerable.  It  was  stated  in  the 
"  Seven  Lamps,"  that  unless  luxury  had  ener- 
vated and  subtlety  falsified  the  Gothic  forms, 
Roman  traditions  could  not  have  prevailed 
against  them  ;  and,  although  these  enervated 
and  false  conditions  are  almost  instantly  col- 
ored by  the  classical  influence,  it  would  be  ut- 
terly unfair  to  lay  to  the  charge  of  that  influence 
the  first  debasement  of  the  earlier  schools,  which 
had  lost  the  strength  of  their  system  before 
they  could  be  struck  by  the  plague. 

The  manner,  however,  of  the  debasement  of 
all  schools  of  art,  so  far  as  it  is  natural,  is  in  all 
ages  the  same;  luxuriance  of  ornament,  refine- 
ment of  execution,  and  idle  subtleties  of  fancy, 
taking  the  place  of  true  thought  and  firm  hand- 
ling *,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  delay  the  reader 
long  by  the  Gothic  sick-bed,  for  our  task  is  not 
so  much  to  watch  the  wasting  of  fever  in  the 
features  of  the  expiring  King,  as  to  trace  the 
character  of  that  Hazael  who  dipped  the  cloth 
in  water,  and  laid  it  upon  his  face.  Neverthe- 
less, it  is  necessary  to  the  completeness  of  our 
view  of  the  architecture  of  Venice,  as  well  as  to 
our  understanding  of  the  manner  in  which  the 
Central  Renaissance  obtained  its  universal  do- 
minion, that  we  glance  briefly  at  the  principal 
forms  into  which  Venetian  Gothic  first  declined. 
They  are  two  in  number:  one  the  corruption  of 


THE  RENAISSANCE.  2$$ 

the  Gothic  itself;  the  other  a  partial  return  to 
Byzantine  forms:  for  the  Venetian  mind  having 
carried  the  Gothic  to  a  point  at  which  it  was 
dissatisfied,  tried  to  retrace  its  steps,  fell  back 
first  upon  Byzantine  types,  and  through  them 
passed  to  the  first  Roman.  But  in  thus  retrac- 
ing its  steps,  it  does  not  recover  its  own  lost 
energy.  It  revisits  the  places  through  which  it 
had  passed  in  the  morning  light,  but  it  is  now 
with  wearied  limbs  and  under  the  gloomy  shadow 
of  the  evening. 

Against  this  degraded  Gothic,  then,  came  up 
the  Renaissance  armies;  and  their  first  assault 
was  in  the  requirement  of  universal  perfection. 
For  the  first  time  since  the  destruction  of  Rome, 
the  world  has  seen,  in  the  work  of  the  greatest 
artists  of  the  fifteenth  century, — in  the  painting 
of  Ghirlandajo,  Masaccio,  Francia,  Perugino, 
Pinturicchio,  and  Bellini ;  in  the  sculpture  of 
Mino  da  Fiesole,  of  Ghiberti,  and  Verrocchio, — 
a  perfection  of  execution  and  fulness  of  knowl- 
edge which  cast  all  previous  art  into  the  shade, 
and  which,  being  in  the  work  of  those  men 
united  with  all  that  was  great  in  that  of  former 
days,  did  indeed  justify  the  utmost  enthusiasm 
with  which  their  efforts  were,  or  could  be,  re- 
garded. But  when  this  perfection  had  once 
been  exhibited  in  anything,  it  was  required  in 


254  ARCHITECTURE. 

everything  ;  the  world  could  no  longer  be  satis- 
fied with  less  exquisite  execution,  or  less  disci- 
plined knowledge.  The  first  thing  that  it  de- 
manded in  all  work  was,  that  it  should  be  done 
in  a  consummate  and  learned  way;  and  men 
altogether  forgot  that  it  was  possible  to  con- 
summate what  was  contemptible,  and  to  know 
what  was  useless.  Imperatively  requiring  dex- 
terity of  touch,  they  gradually  forgot  to  look  for 
tenderness  of  feeling;  imperatively  requiring  ac- 
curacy of  knowledge,  they  gradually  forgot  to 
ask  for  originality  of  thought.  The  thought  and 
the  feeling  which  they  despised  departed  from 
them,  and  they  were  left  to  felicitate  themselves 
on  their  small  science  and  their  neat  fingering. 
This  is  the  history  of  the  first  attack  of  the 
Renaissance  upon  the  Gothic  schools,  and  of  its 
rapid  results;  more  fatal  and  immediate  in  arch- 
itecture than  in  any  other  art,  because  there 
the  demand  for  perfection  was  less  reasonable, 
and  less  consistent  with  the  capabilities  of  the 
workman  ;  being  utterly  opposed  to  that  rude- 
ness or  savageness  on  which,  as  we  saw  above, 
the  nobility  of  the  elder  schools  in  great  part 
depends.  But,  inasmuch  as  the  innovations 
were  founded  on  some  of  the  most  beautiful  ex' 
amples  of  art,  and  headed  by  some  of  the  great- 
est men  that  the  world  ever  saw,  and  as  the 
Gothic  with  which  they  had  interfered  was  cor- 


THE  RENAISSANCE.  255 

rupt  and  valueless,  the  first  appearance  of  the 
Renaissance  feeling  had  the  appearance  of  a 
healthy  movement.  A  new  energy  replaced 
whatever  weariness  or  dulness  had  affected  the 
Gothic  mind;  an  exquisite  taste  and  refinement, 
aided  by  extended  knowledge,  furnished  the  first 
models  of  the  new  school;  and  over  the  whole 
of  Italy  a  style  arose,  generally  known  as  cinque- 
cento,  which  in  sculpture  and  painting,  as  I  just 
stated,  produced  the  noblest  masters  whom  the 
world  ever  saw,  headed  by  Michael  Angelo, 
Raphael,  and  Leonardo  ;  but  which  failed  in 
doing  the  same  in  architecture,  because,  as  we 
have  seen  above,  perfection  is  therein  not  possi- 
ble, and  failed  more  totally  than  it  would  other- 
wise have  done,  because  the  classical  enthusiasm 
had  destroyed  the  best  types  of  architectural 
form. 

The  effect,  then,  of  the  sudden  enthusiasm 
for  classical  literature,  which  gained  strength 
during  every  hour  of  the  fifteenth  century,  was, 
as  far  as  respected  architecture,  to  do  away  with 
the  entire  system  of  Gothic  science.  The 
pointed  arch,  the  shadowy  vault,  the  clustered 
shaft,  the  heaven-pointing  spire,  were  all  swept 
away;  and  no  structure  was  any  longer  permitted 
but  that  of  the  plain  cross-beam  from  pillar  to 
pillar,  over  the  round  arch  with  square  or  cir- 


256  ARCHITECTURE. 

cular  shafts,  and  a  low  gabled  roof  and  pediment; 
two  elements  of  noble  form,  which  had  fortu- 
nately existed  in  Rome,  were,  however,  for  that 
reason,  still  permitted;  the  cupola,  and,  inter- 
nally, the  waggon  vault. 

Do  not  let  me  be  misunderstood  when  I  speak 
generally  of  the  evil  spirit  of  the  Renaissance. 
The  reader  may  look  through  all  I  have  written, 
from  first  to  last,  and  he  will  not  find  one  word 
but  the  most  profound  reverence  for  those 
mighty  men  who  could  wear  the  Renaissance 
armor  of  proof,  and  yet  not  feel  it  encumber 
their  living  limbs, — Leonardo  and  Michael 
Angelo,  Ghirlandajo  and  Masaccio,  Titian  and 
Tintoret.  But  I  speak  of  the  Renaissance  as  an 
evil  time,  because,  when  it  saw  those  men  go 
burning  forth  into  the  battle,  it  mistook  their 
armor  for  their  strength;  and  forthwith  encum- 
bered with  the  painful  panoply  every  stripling 
who  ought  to  have  gone  forth  only  with  his  own 
choice  of  three  small  stones  out  of  the  brook. 

Over  the  greater  part  of  the  surface  of  the 
world,  we  find  that  a  rock  has  been  providen- 
tially distributed,  in  a  manner  particularly  point- 
ing it  out  as  intended  for  the  service  of  man. 
Not  altogether  a  common  rock,  it  is  yet  rare 
enough  to  command  a  certain  degree  of  interest 
and  attention  wherever  it  is  found;  but  not  50 


THE  RENAISSANCE.  2$? 

rare  as  to  preclude  its  use  for  any  purpose 
to  which  it  is  fitted.  It  is  exactly  of  the  con- 
sistence which  is  best  adapted  for  sculpture; 
that  is  to  say,  neither  hard  nor  brittle,  nor  flaky 
nor  splintery,  but  uniform,  and  delicately,  yet 
not  ignobly  soft — exactly  soft  enough  to  allow 
the  sculptor  to  work  it  without  force,  and  trace 
on  it  the  finest  lines  of  finished  forms;  and  yet 
so  hard  as  never  to  betray  the  touch  or  moulder 
away  beneath  the  steel;  and  so  admirably  crys- 
tallized, and  of  such  permanent  elements,  that 
no  rains  dissolve  it,  no  time  changes  it,  no 
atmosphere  decomposes  it;  once  shaped,  it  is 
shaped  for  ever,  unless  subjected  to  actual  vio- 
lence or  attrition.  This  rock,  then,  is  prepared 
by  Nature  for  the  sculptor  and  architect,  just  as 
paper  is  prepared  by  the  manufacturer  for  the 
artist,  with  as  great — nay,  with  greater — care,  and 
more  perfect  adaptation  of  the  material  to  the 
requirements.  And  of  this  marble  paper,  some 
is  white  and  some  colored;  but  more  is  colored 
than  white,  because  the  white  is  evidently  meant 
for  sculpture,  and  the  colored  for  the  covering 
of  large  surfaces.  Now  if  we  would  take  Nature 
at  her  word,  and  use  this  precious  paper  which 
she  has  taken  so  much  care  to  provide  for  us  (it 
is  a  long  process,  the  making  of  that  paper  ;  the 
pulp  of  it  needed  the  subtlest  possible  solution, 
and  the  pressing  of  it — for  it  is  all  hot  pressed — 


258  ARCHITECTURE. 

having  to  be  done  under  the  sea,  or  under  some- 
thing at  least  as  heavy);  if,  I  say,  we  use  it  as 
Nature  would  have  us,  consider  what  advantages 
would  follow. 

The  colors  of  marble  are  mingled  for  us  just 
as  if  on  a  prepared  palette.  They  are  of  all 
shades  and  hues  (except  bad  ones),  some  being 
united  and  even,  some  broken,  mixed,  and  inter- 
rupted, in  order  to  supply,  as  far  as  possible,  the 
Avant  of  the  painter's  power  of  breaking  and 
mingling  the  color  with  the  brush.  But  there  is 
more  in  the  colors  than  this  delicacy  of  adapta- 
tion. There  is  history  in  them.  By  the  manner 
in  which  they  are  arranged  in  every  piece  of 
marble,  they  record  the  means  by  which  that 
marble  has  been  produced,  and  the  successive 
changes  through  which  it  has  passed.  And  in 
all  their  veins  and  zones,  and  flame-like  stain- 
ings,  or  broken  and  disconnected  lines,  they 
write  various  legends,  never  untrue,  of  the  former 
political  state  of  the  mountain  kingdom  to  which 
they  belonged,  of  its  infirmities  and  fortitudes, 
convulsions  and  consolidations,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  time. 


Part  4. 
SCULPTURE. 


*'  My  friend,  all  speech  and  humor  is  short-lived,  foolish, 
untrue.  Genuine  work  alone,  what  thou  workest  faithfully, 
that  is  eternal. 

"  Take  courage,  then — raise  the  ar?n — strike  home  and  that 
right  lustily — the  citadel  of  Hope  must  yield  to  noble  desire, 
thus  seconded  by  noble  efforts.'''1 


PART  IV. 

SCULPTURE. 

Architecture  is  the  work  of  nations;  but  we 
cannot  have  nations  of  great  sculptors.  Every 
house  in  every  street  of  every  city  ought  to  be 
good  architecture,  but  we  cannot  have  Flaxman 
or  Thorwaldsen  at  work  upon  it,  nor  if  we 
choose  only  to  devote  ourselves  to  our  public 
buildings,  could  the  mass  and  majority  of  them 
be  great,  if  we  required  all  to  be  executed  by 
great  men;  greatness  is  not  to  be  had  in  the 
required  quantity.  Giotto  may  design  a  Cam- 
panile, but  he  cannot  carve  it,  he  can  only  carve 
one  or  two  of  the  bas-reliefs  at  the  base  of  it. 
And  with  every  increase  of  your  fastidiousness 
in  the  execution  of  your  ornament,  you  diminish 
the  possible  number  and  grandeur  of  your  build- 
ings. Do  not  think  you  can  educate  your  work- 
men, or  that  the  demand  for  perfection  will 
increase  the  supply;  educated  imbecility  and 
finessed  foolishness  are  the  worst  of  all  imbecili- 
ties and  foolishness,  and  there  is  no  free-trade 

261 


262  SCULPTURE. 

measure  which  will  ever  lower  the  price  of  brains, 
— there  is  no  California  of  common  sense. 

Suppose  one  of  those  old  Ninevite  or  Egyptian 
builders,  with  a  couple  of  thousand  men — mud- 
bred,  onion-eating  creatures,  under  him,  to  be 
set  to  work,  like  so  many  ants,  on  his  temple 
sculptures.  What  is  he  to  do  with  them  ?  He 
can  put  them  through  a  granitic  exercise  of 
current  hand;  he  can  teach  them  all  how  to 
curl  hair  thoroughly  into  croche-cceurs,  as  you 
teach  a  bench  of  school-boys  how  to  shape  pot- 
hooks; he  can  teach  them  all  how  to  draw  long 
eyes  and  straight  noses,  and  how  to  copy  accu- 
rately certain  well-defined  lines.  Then  he  fits 
his  own  great  designs  to  their  capacities;  he 
takes  out  of  king,  or  lion,  or  god,  as  much  as 
was  expressible  by  croche-cceurs  and  granitic 
pothooks;  he  throws  this  into  noble  forms  of  his 
own  imagining,  and  having  mapped  out  their 
lines  so  that  there  can  be  no  possibility  of  error, 
sets  his  two  thousand  men  to  work  upon  them, 
with  a  will  and  so  many  onions  a  day. 

Those  times  cannot  now  return.  We  have, 
with  Christianity,  recognised  the  individual  value 
of  every  soul;  and  there  is  no  intelligence  so 
feeble  but  that  its  single  ray  may  in  some  sort 
contribute  to  the  general  light. 

It  is  foolish  to  carve  what  is  to  be  seen  forty 


SCULPTURE.  263 

yards  off  with  the  delicacy  which  the  eye  de- 
mands within  two  yards;  not  merely  because  it 
is  lost  in  the  distance,  but  because  it  is  a  great 
deal  worse  than  lost;  the  delicate  work  has  actu- 
ally worse  effect  in  the  distance  than  rough  work. 
We  may  be  asked,  whether  in  advocating  this 
adaptation  to  the  distance  of  the  eye,  I  obey  my 
adopted  rules  of  observance  of  natural  law.  Are 
not  all  natural  things,  it  may  be  asked,  as  lovely 
near  as  far  away  ?  Nay,  not  so.  Look  at  the 
clouds,  and  watch  the  delicate  sculpture  of  their 
alabaster  sides,  and  the  rounded  lustre  of  their 
magnificent  rolling.  They  are  meant  to  be 
beheld  far  away;  they  were  shaped  for  their 
place,  high  above  your  head;  approach  them, 
and  they  fuse  into  vague  mists,  or  whirl  away  in 
fierce  fragments  of  thunderous  vapor.  Look  at 
the  crest  of  the  Alp,  from  the  far-away  plains 
over  which  the  light  is  cast,  whence  human  souls 
have  communion  with  it  by  their  myriads.  The 
child  looks  up  to  it  in  the  dawn,  and  the  hus- 
bandman in  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  and 
the  old  man  in  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  and 
it  is  to  them  all  as  the  celestial  city  on  the 
world's  horizon;  dyed  with  the  depths  of  heaven, 
and  clothed  with  the  calm  of  eternity.  There 
was  it  set,  for  holy  dominion,  by  Him  who 
marked  for  the  sun  his  journey,  and  bade  the 
moon  know  her  going  down.     It  was  built  /or  its 


264  SCULPTURE. 

place  in  the  far-off  sky;  approach  it,  and  as  the 
sound  of  the  voice  of  man  dies  away  about  its 
foundations,  and  the  tide  of  human  life,  shallowed 
upon  the  vast  arid  shore,  is  at  last  met  by  the 
Eternal  "  Here  shall  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed," 
the  glory  of  its  aspect  fades  into  blanched  fear- 
fulness;  its  purple  walls  are  rent  into  grisly 
rocks;  its  silver  fretwork  saddened  into  wasting 
snow;  the  storm-brands  of  ages  are  on  its  breast, 
the  ashes  of  its  own  ruin  lie  solemnly  on  its 
white  raiment. 

Now  it  is  indeed  true  that  where  nature  loses 
one  kind  of  beauty,  as  you  approach  it,  she  sub- 
stitutes another;  this  is  worthy  of  her  infinite 
power,  and  art  can  sometimes  follow  her  even 
in  doing  this.  Take  a  singular  and  marked  in- 
stance. When  the  sun  rises  behind  a  ridge  of 
pines,  and  those  pines  are  seen  from  a  distance 
of  a  mile  or  two;  against  his  light,  the  whole 
form  of  the  tree,  trunk,  branches,  and  all  be- 
comes one  frostwork  of  intensely  brilliant  silver, 
which  is  relieved  against  the  day  sky  like  a  burn- 
ing fringe,  for  some  distance  on  either  side  of 
the  sun!  Shakspeare  and  Wordsworth  have  no- 
ticed this.  Shakspeare  in  Richard  II. : — 
"  But  when,  from  under  this  terrestrial  ball, 
He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines." 

And  Wordsworth,  in  one  of  his  minor  poems,  on 
leaving  Italy: — 


SCULPTURE.  265 

'My  thoughts  become  bright,  like  yon  edging  of  pines: 
On  the  steep's  lofty  verge,  how  it  blackened  the  air. 
But  touched  from  behind  by  the  sun,  it  now  shines 
With  threads  that  seem  part  of  his  own  silver  hair." 

Now,  suppose  one  who  had  never  seen  pines, 
were,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  to  see  them 
under  this  strange  aspect,  and,  reasoning  as  to 
the  means  by  which  such  effect  could  be  pro- 
duced, laboriously  to  approach  the  eastern  ridge> 
how  would  he  be  amazed  to  find  that  the  fiery 
spectres  had  been  produced  by  trees  with  swarthy 
and  grey  trunks,  and  dark  green  leaves !  We  in 
our  simplicity,  if  we  had  been  required  to  pro- 
duce such  an  appearance,  should  have  built  up 
trees  of  chased  silver,  with  trunks  of  glass,  and 
then  been  grievously  amazed  to  find  that,  at  two 
miles  off,  neither  silver  nor  glass  were  any  more 
visible;  but  Nature  knew  better,  and  prepared 
for  her  fairy  work  with  the  strong  branches  and 
dark  leaves,  in  her  own  mysterious  way. 

Now  this  is  exactly  what  you  have  to  do  with 
your  good  ornament.  It  may  be  that  it  is  capa- 
ble of  being  approached,  as  well  as  likely  to  be 
seen  far  away,  and  then  it  ought  to  have  micro- 
scopic qualities,  as  the  pine  leaves  have,  which 
will  bear  approach.  But  your  calculation  of  its 
purpose  is  for  a  glory  to  be  produced  at  a  given 
distance. 


266  SCULPTURE. 

All  noble  ornament  is  the  expression  of  man's 
delight  in  God's  work. 

The  function  of  ornament  is  to  make  you 
happy.  Now,  in  what  are  you  rightly  happy? 
Not  in  thinking  what  you  have  done  yourself; 
not  in  your  own  pride;  not  in  your  own  birth; 
not  in  your  own  being,  or  your  own  will,  but  in 
looking  at  God;  watching  what  He  does,  what 
He  is;  and  obeying  His  law,  and  yielding  your- 
self to  His  will. 

You  are  to  be  made  happy  by  ornaments; 
therefore  they  must  be  the  expression  of  all  this. 

Then  the  proper  material  of  ornament  will  be 
whatever  God  has  created;  and  its  proper  treat- 
ment, that  which  seems  in  accordance  with,  or 
symbolical  of,  His  laws.  And,  for  material,  we 
shall  therefore  have,  first,  the  abstract  lines 
which  are  most  frequent  in  nature;  and  then, 
from  lower  to  higher,  the  whole  range  of  system- 
atized inorganic  and  organic  forms.  We  shall 
rapidly  glance  in  order  at  their  kinds,  and  how- 
ever absurd  the  elemental  division  of  inorganic 
matter  by  the  ancients  may  seem  to  the  modern 
chemist,  it  is  so  grand  and  simple  for  arrange- 
ment of  external  appearances,  that  I  shall  here 
follow  it;  noticing  first,  after  Abstract  Lines,  the 
inimitable  forms  of  the  four  elements,  of  Earth, 
Water,  Fire,  and  Air,  and  then  those  of  animal 
organisms. 


SCULPTURE.  267 

It  may  be  convenient  to  have  the  order  stated 
in  succession,  thus: — 
'    1.  Abstract  Lines. 

2.  Forms  of  Earth  (Crystals). 

3.  Forms  of  Water  (Waves). 

4.  Forms  of  Fire  (Flames  and  Rays). 

5.  Forms  of  Air  (Clouds). 

6.  Organic  Forms.     Shells. 

7.  Fish. 

8.  Reptiles  and  Insects. 

9.  Vegetation.     Stems  and  Trunks. 

10.  Vegetation.     Foliage,  Flowers,  and  Fruit. 

n.  Birds. 

12.  Mammalian  Animals  and  Man. 

We  find,  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture  wholly  de- 
voted to  entertain  the  indolent  and  satiate  the 
luxurious.  To  effect  these  noble  ends,  they 
took  a  thousand  different  forms;  painting,  how- 
ever, of  course  being  the  most  complying,  aim- 
ing sometimes  at  mere  amusement  by  deception 
in  landscapes,  or  minute  imitation  of  natural  ob- 
jects; sometimes  giving  more  piquant  excite- 
ment in  battle-pieces  full  of  slaughter,  or  revels 
deep  in  drunkenness;  sometimes  entering  upon 
serious  subjects,  for  the  sake  of  grotesque  fiends 
and  picturesque  infernos,  or  that  it  might  intro- 
duce pretty  children  as  cherubs,  and  handsome 


268  SCULPTURE. 

women  as  Magdalenes  and  Maries  of  Egypt,  or 
portraits  of  patrons  in  the  character  of  the  more 
decorous  saints;  but  more  frequently,  for  direct 
flatteries  of  this  kind,  recurring  to  Pagan  my- 
thology, and  painting  frail  ladies  as  goddesses  or 
graces,  and  foolish  kings  in  radiant  apotheosis; 
while,  for  the  earthly  delight  of  the  persons 
whom  it  honored  as  divine,  it  ransacked  the  rec- 
ords of  luscious  fable,  and  brought  back,  in  full- 
est depth  of  dye  and  flame  of  fancy,  the  impur- 
est  dreams  of  the  un-Christian  ages. 

Meanwhile,  the  art  of  sculpture,  less  capable 
of  ministering  to  mere  amusement,  was  more  or 
less  reserved  for  the  affectations  of  taste;  and 
the  study  of  the  classical  statutes  introduced 
various  ideas  on  the  subjects  of  "  purity,"  "  chas- 
tity," and  "  dignity,"  such  as  it  was  possible  for 
people  to  entertain  who  were  themselves  impure, 
luxurious,  and  ridiculous.  It  is  a  matter  of  ex- 
treme difficulty  to  explain  the  exact  character 
of  this  modern  sculpturesque  ideal;  but  its  rela- 
tion to  the  true  ideal  may  be  best  understood 
by  considering  it  as  in  exact  parallelism  with 
the  relation  of  the  word  "  taste  "  to  the  word 
"love."  Wherever  the  word  "  taste  "  is  used 
with  respect  to  matters  of  art,  it  indicates  either 
that  the  thing  spoken  of  belongs  to  some  infe- 
rior class  of  objects,  or  that  the  person  speak- 
ing has  a  false  conception  of  its  nature.     For, 


SCULPTURE.  269 

consider  the  exact  sense  in  which  a  work  of 
art  is  said  to  be  "  in  good  or  bad  taste."  It 
does  not  mean  thjat  it  is  true  or  false;  that  it  is 
beautiful  or  ugly;  but  that  it  does  or  does  not 
comply  either  with  the  laws  of  choice,  which  are 
enforced  by  certain  modes  of  life;  or  the  habits 
of  mind  produced  by  a  particular  sort  of  educa- 
tion. It  does  not  mean  merely  fashionable, 
that  is,  complying  with  a  momentary  caprice  of 
the  upper  classes;  but  it  means  agreeing  with 
the  habitual  sense  which  the  most  refined  edu- 
cation, common  to  those  upper  classes  at  the 
period,  gives  to  their  whole  mind.  Now,  therefore, 
so  far  as  that  education  does  indeed  tend  to 
make  the  senses  delicate,  and  the  perceptions 
accurate,  and  thus  enables  people  to  be  pleased 
with  quiet  instead  of  gaudy  color,  and  with  grace- 
ful instead  of  coarse  form;  and,  by  long  ac- 
quaintance with  the  best  things,  to  discern 
quickly  what  is  fine  from  what  is  common; — so 
far,  acquired  taste  is  an  honorable  faculty,  and 
it  is  true  praise  of  anything  to  say  it  is  "  in  good 
taste."  But  so  far  as  this  higher  education  has 
a  tendency  to  narrow  the  sympathies  and  har- 
den the  heart,  diminishing  the  interest  of  all 
beautiful  things  by  familiarity,  until  even  what 
is  best  can  hardly  please,  and  what  is  brightest 
hardly  entertain; — so  far  as  it  fosters  pride,  and 
leads  men  to  found  the  pleasure  they  take  in 


270  SCULPTURE. 

anything,  not  on  the  worthiness  of  the  thing, 
but  on  the  degree  in  which  it  indicates  some 
greatness  of  their  own  (as  people  build  marble 
porticos,  and  inlay  marble  floors,  not  so  much 
because  they  like  the  colors  of  marble,  or  find 
it  pleasant  to  the  foot,  as  because  such  porches 
and  floors  are  costly,  and  separated  in  all  human 
eyes  from  plain  entrances  of  stone  and  timber); 
— so  far  as  it  leads  people  to  prefer  gracefulness 
of  dress,  manner,  and  aspect,  to  value  of  sub- 
stance and  heart,  liking  a  well  said  thing  better 
than  a  true  thing,  and  a  well  trained  manner 
better  than  a  sincere  one,  and  a  delicately 
formed  face  better  than  a  good-natured  one, 
and  in  all  other  ways  and  things  setting  custom 
and  semblance  above  everlasting  truth  ; — so 
far,  finally,  as  it  induces  a  sense  of  inherent  dis- 
tinction between  class  and  class,  and  causes 
everything  to  be  more  or  less  despised  which 
has  no  social  rank,  so  that  the  affection,  pleas- 
ure, or  grief  of  a  clown  are  looked  upon  as  of  no 
interest  compared  with  the  affection  and  grief 
of  a  well-bred  man  ; — just  so  far,  in  all  these 
several  ways,  the  feeling  induced  by  what  is 
called  a  "  liberal  education"  is  utterly  adverse 
to  the  understanding  of  noble  art ;  and  the  name 
which  is  given  to  the  feeling, — Taste,  Gout, 
Gusto, — in  all  languages,  indicates  the  baseness 
of  it,  for  it  implies  that  art  gives  only  a  kind  of 


SCULPTURE.  271 

pleasure  analogous  to  that  derived  from  eating 
by  the  palate. 

Modern  education,  not  in  art  only,  but  in  all 
other  things  referable  to  the  same  standard,  has 
invariably  given  taste  in  this  bad  sense;  it  has 
given  fastidiousness  of  choice  without  judgment, 
superciliousness  of  manner  without  dignity,  re- 
finement of  habit  without  purity,  grace  of  ex- 
pression without  sincerity,  and  desire  of  loveli- 
ness without  love;  and  the  modern  "Ideal"  of 
high  art  is  a  curious  mingling  of  the  gracefulness 
and  reserve  of  the  drawing-room  with  a  certain 
measure  of  classical  sensuality.  Of  this  last  ele- 
ment, and  the  singular  artifices  by  which  vice 
succeeds  in  combining  it  with  what  appears  to 
be  pure  and  severe,  it  would  take  us  long  to 
reason  fully;  I  would  rather  leave  the  reader  to 
follow  out  for  himself  the  consideration  of  the 
influence,  in  this  direction,  of  statues,  bronzes, 
and  paintings,  as  at  present  employed  by  the 
upper  circles  of  London,  and  (especially)  Paris; 
and  this  not  so  much  in  the  works  which  are 
really  fine,  as  in  the  multiplied  coarse  copies  of 
them;  taking  the  widest  range,  from  Dannae- 
ker's  Ariadne  down  to  the  amorous  shepherd 
and  shepherdess  in  China  on  the  drawing-room 
time-piece,  rigidly  questioning  in  each  case,  how 
far  the  charm  of  the  art  does  indeed  depend  on 
some  appeal  to  the  inferior  passions.     Let  it  be 


272  SCULPTURE. 

considered,  for  instance,  exactly  how  far  the 
value  of  a  picture  of  a  girl's  head  by  Greuze 
would  be  lowered  in  the  market,  if  the  dress, 
which  now  leaves  the  bosom  bare,  were  raised  to 
the  neck;  and  how  far,  in  the  commonest  litho- 
graph of  some  utterly  popular  subject, — for  in- 
stance, the  teaching  of  Uncle  Tom  by  Eva — the 
sentiment  which  is  supposed  to  be  excited  by 
the  exhibition  of  Christianity  in  youth  is  com- 
plicated with  that  which  depends  upon  Eva's 
having  a  dainty  foot  and  a  well-made  satin  slip- 
per; and  then,  having  completely  determined 
for  himself  how  far  the  element  exists,  consider 
farther,  whether,  when  art  is  thus  frequent  (for 
frequent  he  will  assuredly  find  it  to  be)  in  its  ap- 
peal to  the  lower  passions,  it  is  likely  to  attain 
the  highest  order  of  merit,  or  be  judged  by  the 
truest  standards  of  judgment.  For,  of  all  the 
causes  which  ha^e  combined,  in  modern  times, 
to  lower  the  rank  of  art,  I  believe  this  to  be  one 
of  the  most  fatal;  while,  reciprocally,  it  may  be 
questioned  how  far  society  suffers,  in  its  turn, 
from  the  influences  possessed  over  it  by  the  arts 
it  has  degraded.  It  seems  to  me  a  subject  of 
the  very  deepest  interest  to  determine  what  has 
been  the  effect  upon  the  European  nations  of 
the  great  change  by  which  art  became  again 
capable  of  ministering  delicately  to  the  lower 
passions,  as  it  had  in  the  worst  days  of  Rome; 


SCULPTURE.  273 

how  far,  indeed,  in  all  ages,  the  fall  of  nations 
may  be  attributed  to  art's  arriving  at  this  par- 
ticular stage  among  them.  I  do  not  mean  that, 
in  any  of  its  stages,  it  is  incapable  of  being  em- 
ployed for  evil,  but  that  assuredly  an  Egyptian, 
Spartan,  or  Norman  was  unexposed  to  the  kind 
of  temptation  which  is  continually  offered  by  the 
delicate  painting  and  sculpture  of  modern  days; 
and,  although  the  diseased  imagination  might 
complete  the  perfect  image  of  beauty  from  the 
colored  image  on  the  wall,*  or  the  most  revolt- 
ing thoughts  be  suggested  by  the  mocking  bar- 
barism of  the  Gothic  sculpture,  their  hard  out- 
line and  rude  execution  were  free  from  all  the 
subtle  treachery  which  now  fills  the  flushed  can- 
vass and  the  rounded  marble. 

I  cannot,  however,  pursue  this  inquiry  here. 
For  our  present  purpose  it  is  enough  to  note  that 
the  feeling,  in  itself  so  debased,  branches  up- 
wards into  that  of  which,  while  no  one  has  cause 
to  be  ashamed,  no  one,  on  the  other  hand,  has 
cause  to  be  proud,  namely,  the  admiration  of 
physical  beauty  in  the  human  form,  as  distin- 
guished from  expression  of  character.  Every 
one  can  easily  appreciate  the  merit  of  regular 
features  and  well-formed  limbs,  but  it  requires 
some  attention,  sympathy,  and  sense,  to  detect 
the  charm  of  passing  expression,  or  life-disci- 
*  Ezek.  xxiii.  14. 


274  SCULPTURE. 

plined  character.  The  beauty  of  the  Apollo  Bel- 
videre,  or  Venus  de  Medicis,  is  perfectly  palpa- 
ble to  any  shallow  fine  lady  or  fine  gentleman, 
though  they  would  have  perceived  none  in  the 
face  of  an  old  weather-beaten  St.  Peter,  or  a 
gray-haired  "  Grandmother  Lois."  The  knowl- 
edge that  long  study  is  necessary  to  produce 
these  regular  types  of  the  human  form  renders 
the  facile  admiration  matter  of  eager  self-com- 
placency; the  shallow  spectator,  delighted  that 
he  can  really,  and  without  hypocrisy,  admire 
what  required  much  thought  to  produce,  sup- 
poses himself  endowed  with  the  highest  critical 
faculties,  and  easily  lets  himself  be  carried  into 
rhapsodies  about  the  "  ideal,"  which,  when  all  is 
said,  if  they  be  accurately  examined,  will  be 
found  literally  to  mean  nothing  more  than  that 
the  figure  has  got  handsome  calves  to  its  legs, 
and  a  straight  nose. 

That  they  do  mean,  in  reality,  nothing  more 
than  this  may  be  easily  ascertained  by  watching 
the  taste  of  the  same  persons  in  other  things. 
The  fashionable  lady  who  will  write  five  or  six 
pages  in  her  diary  respecting  the  effect  upon  her 
mind  of  such  and  such  an  "ideal"  in  marble, 
will  have  her  drawing-room  table  covered  with 
Books  of  Beauty,  in  which  the  engravings  repre- 
sent the  human  form  in  every  possible  aspect  of 
distortion  and  affectation;  and  the  connoisseur 


SCULPTURE.  275 

who,  in  the  morning,  pretends  to  the  most  ex- 
quisite taste  in  the  antique,  will  be  seen,  in  the 
evening,  in  his  opera-stall,  applauding  the  least 
graceful  gestures  of  the  least  modest  figurante. 

But  even  this  vulgar  pursuit  of  physical  beauty 
(vulgar  in  the  profoundest  sense,  for  there  is  no 
vulgarity  like  the  vulgarity  of  education)  would 
be  less  contemptible  if  it  really  succeeded  in  its 
object;  but,  like  all  pursuits  carried  to  inordi- 
nate length,  it  defeats  itself.  Physical  beauty  is 
a  noble  thing  when  it  is  seen  in  perfectness;  but 
the  manner  in  which  the  moderns  pursue  their 
ideal  prevents  their  ever  really  seeing  what  they 
are  always  seeking;  for,  requiring  that  all  forms 
should  be  regular  and  faultless,  they  permit,  or 
even  compel,  their  painters  and  sculptors  to  work 
chiefly  by  rule,  altering  their  models  to  fit  their 
preconceived  notions  of  what  is  right.  When 
such  artists  look  at  a  face,  they  do  not  give  it  the 
attention  necessary  to  discern  what  beauty  is  al- 
ready in  its  peculiar  features;  but  only  to  see  how 
best  it  may  be  altered  into  something  for  which 
they  have  themselves  laid  down  the  laws.  Na- 
ture never  unveils  her  beauty  to  such  a  gaze. 
She  keeps  whatever  she  has  done  best,  close 
sealed,  until  it  is  regarded  with  reverence.  To 
the  painter  who  honors  her,  she  will  open  a  reve- 
lation in  the  face  of  a  street  mendicant;  but  in 
the  work  of  the  painter  who  alters  her,  she  will 


2j6  SCULPTURE. 

make  Portia  become  ignoble  and  Perdita  grace- 
less. 

Nor  is  the  effect  less  for  evil  on  the  mind  of 
the  general  observer.  The  lover  of  ideal  beauty, 
with  all  his  conceptions  narrowed  by  rule,  never 
looks  carefully  enough  upon  the  features  which 
do  not  come  under  his  law  (or  any  others),  to 
discern  the  inner  beauty  in  them.  The  strange 
intricacies  about  the  lines  of  the  lips,  and  mar- 
vellous  shadows  and  watchfires  of  the  eye,  and 
wavering  traceries  of  the  eyelash,  and  infinite 
modulations  of  the  brow,  wherein  high  humani- 
ty is  embodied,  are  all  invisible  to  him.  He 
finds  himself  driven  back  at  last,  with  all  his 
idealism,  to  the  lionne  of  the  ball-room,  whom 
youth  and  passion  can  as  easily  distinguish  as 
his  utmost  critical  science  ;  whereas,  the  ob- 
server who  has  accustomed  himself  to  take 
human  faces  as  God  made  them,  will  often  find 
as  much  beauty  on  a  village  green  as  in  the 
proudest  room  of  state,  and  as  much  in  the  free 
seats  of  a  church  aisle,  as  in  all  the  sacred  paint- 
ings of  the  Vatican  or  the  Pitti. 

The  difference  in  the  accuracy  of  the  lines  of 
the  Torso  of  the  Vatican  (the  Maestro  of  M. 
Angelo)  from  those  in  one  of  M.  Angelo's  finest 
works,  could  perhaps  scarcely  be  appreciated  by 
any  eye  or  feeling  undisciplined  by  the  most 
perfect  and  practical  anatomical  knowledge.     It 


SCULPTURE.  277 

rests  on  points  of  such  traceless  and  refined 
delicacy,  that  though  we  feel  them  in  the  result, 
we  cannot  follow  them  in  the  details.  Yet  they 
are  such  and  so  great  as  to  place  the  Torso 
alone  in  art,  solitary  and  supreme;  while  the 
finest  of  M.  Angelo's  works,  considered  with 
respect  to  truth  alone,  are  said  to  be  only  on  a 
level  with  antiques  of  the  second  class,  under 
the  Apollo  and  Venus,  that  is,  two  classes  or 
grades  below  the  Torso.  But  suppose  the  best 
sculptor  in  the  world,  possessing  the  most  entire 
appreciation  of  the  excellence  of  the  Torso, 
were  to  sit  down,  pen  in  hand,  to  try  and  tell  us 
wherein  the  peculiar  truth  of  each  line  con- 
sisted? Could  any  words  that  he  could  use 
make  us  feel  the  hairbreadth  of  depth  and  dis- 
tance on  which  all  depends  ?  or  end  in  anything 
more  than  bare  assertions  of  the  inferiority  of 
this  line  to  that,  which,  if  we  did  not  perceive 
for  ourselves,  no  explanation  could  ever  illus- 
trate to  us  ?  He  might  as  well  endeavor  to  ex- 
plain to  us  by  words  some  taste  or  other  subject 
of  sense,  of  which  we  had  no  experience.  And 
so  it  is  with  all  truths  of  the  highest  order;  they 
are  separated  from  those  of  average  precision 
by  points  of  extreme  delicacy,  which  none  but 
the  cultivated  eye  can  in  the  least  feel,  and  to 
express  which,  all  words  are  absolutely  meaning- 
less and  useless.     So  far  as  the  sight  and  knowl- 


2/8  SCULPTURE. 

edge  of  the  human  form,  of  the  purest  race, 
exercised  from  infancy  constantly,  but  not  ex- 
cessively, in  all  exercises  of  dignity,  not  in  twists 
and  straining  dexterities,  but  in  natural  exercises 
of  running,  casting,  or  riding;  practised  in  en- 
durance, not  of  extraordinary  hardship,  for  that 
hardens  and  degrades  the  body,  but  of  natural 
hardship,  vicissitudes  of  winter  and  summer,  and 
cold  and  heat,  yet  in  a  climate  where  none  of 
these  are  severe;  surrounded  also  by  a  certain 
degree  of  right  luxury,  so  as  to  soften  and  refine 
the  forms  of  strength;  so  far  as  the  sight  of  this 
could  render  the  mental  intelligence  of  what  is 
right  in  human  form  so  acute  as  to  be  able  to 
abstract  and  combine  from  the  best  examples 
so  produced,  that  which  was  most  perfect  in 
each,  so  far  the  Greek  conceived  and  attained 
the  ideal  of  bodily  form. 

Form  we  find  abstractedly  considered  by  the 
sculptor;  how  far  it  would  be  possible  to  advan- 
tage a  statue  by  the  addition  of  color,  I  venture 
not  to  affirm;  the  question  is  too  extensive  to 
be  here  discussed.  High  authorities  and  an- 
cient practice,  are  in  favor  of  color;  so  the 
sculpture  of  the  middle  ages:  the  two  statues  of 
Mina  da  Fiesole  in  the  church  of  Sta.  Caterina 
at  Pisa  have  been  colored,  the  irises  of  the  eyes 
painted  dark,  and  the  hair  gilded,  as  also  I  think 
the  Madonna  in   Sta.  Maria   della   Spina ;  the 


SCULPTURE.  279 

eyes  have  been  painted  in  the  sculptures  of 
Orcagna  in  Or  San  Michele,  but  it  looks  like  a 
remnant  of  barbarism  (compare  the  pulpit  of 
Guida  da  Como,  in  the  church  of  San  Bartol- 
omeo  at  Pistoja),  and  I  have  never  seen  color 
on  any  solid  forms,  that  did  not,  to  my  mind, 
neutralize  all  other  power ;  the  porcelains  of 
Luca  Delia  Robbia  are  painful  examples,  and  in 
lower  art,  Florentine  mosaic  in  relief;  gilding  is 
more  admissible,  and  tells  sometimes  sweetly 
upon  figures  of  quaint  design,  as  on  the  pulpit 
of  Sta.  Maria  Novella,  while  it  spoils  the  classi- 
cal ornaments  of  the  mouldings.  But  the  truest 
grandeur  of  sculpture  I  believe  to  be  in  the 
white  form. 

It  was  said  by  Michael  Angelo  that  "  non  ha 
l'ottimo  scultore  alcun  concetto,  Ch'un  marmo 
solo  in  se  non  circoscriva,"  a  sentence  which, 
though  in  the  immediate  sense  intended  by  the 
writer  it  may  remind  us  a  little  of  the  indigna- 
tion of  Boileau's  Pluto,  "  II  s'ensuit  de  la  que 
tout  ce  qui  se  peut  dire  de  beau,  est  dans  les 
dictionnaires, — il  n'y  a  que  les  paroles  qui  sont 
transposees,"  yet  is  valuable,  because  it  shows 
us  that  Michael  Angelo  held  the  imagination  to 
be  entirely  expressible  in  rock,  and  therefore  al- 
together independent,  in  its  own  nature,  of  those 
aids  of  color  and   shade  by  which   it   is  recom- 


2  So  SCULPTURE. 

mended  in  Tintoret,  though  the  sphere  of  its 
operation  is  of  course  by  these  incalculably- 
extended.  But  the  presence  of  the  imagination 
may  be  rendered  in  marble  as  deep,  thrilling, 
and  awful  as  in  painting,  so  that  the  sculptor 
seek  for  the  soul  and  govern  the  body  thereby. 

Of  unimaginative  work,  Bandinelli  and  Can- 
ova  supply  us  with  characteristic  instances  of 
every  kind,  the  Hercules  and  Cacus  of  the 
former,  and  its  criticism  by  Cellini,  will  occur 
at  once  to  every  one;  the  disgusting  statue  now 
placed  so  as  to  conceal  Giotto's  important  tem- 
pera picture  in  Santa  Croce  is  a  better  instance, 
but  a  still  more  important  lesson  might  be  re- 
ceived by  comparing  the  inanity  of  Canova's 
garland  grace  and  ball-room  sentiment  with  the 
intense  truth,  tenderness,  and  power  of  men 
like  Mino  da  Fiesole,  whose  chisel  leaves  many 
a  hard  edge,  and  despises  down  and  dimple, 
but  it  seems  to  cut  light  and  carve  breath,  the 
marble  burns  beneath  it,  and  becomes  transpar- 
ent with  every  spirit.  Yet  Mino  stopped  at  the 
human  nature;  he  saw  the  soul,  but  not  the 
ghostly  presences  about  it;  it  was  reserved  for 
Michael  Angelo  to  pierce  deeper  yet,  and  to  see 
the  indwelling  angels.  No  man's  soul  is  alone: 
Laocoon  or  Tobit,  the  serpent  has  it  by  the 
heart  or  the  angel  by  the  hand,  the  light  or  the 
fear  of  the  spiritual  things  that  move  beside  it 


SCULPTURE.  28 1 

may  be  seen  on  the  body,  and  that  bodily  form 
with  Buonaroti,  white,  solid,  distinct  material, 
though  it  be,  is  invariably  felt  as  the  instru- 
ment or  the  habitation  of  some  infinite,  invisible 
power.  The  earth  of  the  Sistine  Adam  that 
begins  to  burn;  the  woman  embodied  burst  of 
adoration  from  his  sleep;  the  twelve  great  tor- 
rents of  the  Spirit  of  God  that  pause  above  us 
there,  urned  in  their  vessels  of  clay;  the  waiting 
in  the  shadow  of  futurity  of  those  through 
whom  the  promise  and  presence  of  God  went 
down  from  the  Eve  to  the  Mary,  each  still  and 
fixed,  fixed  in  his  expectation,  silent,  foreseeing, 
faithful,  seated  each  on  his  stony  throne,  the 
building  stones  of  the  word  of  God,  building  on 
and  on,  tier  by  tier,  to  the  Refused  one,  the  head 
of  the  corner;  not  only  these,  not  only  the 
troops  of  terror  torn  up  from  the  earth  by  the 
four  quartered  winds  of  the  Judgment,  but  every 
fragment  and  atom  of  stone  though  compelled 
to  represent  the  Sinai  under  conventional  form, 
in  order  that  the  receiving  of  the  tables  might 
be  seen  at  the  top  of  it,  yet  so  soon  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  give  more  truth,  he  is  ready  with  it;  he 
takes  a  grand  fold  of  horizontal  cloud  straight 
from  the  flanks  of  the  Alps,  and  shows  the  for- 
ests of  the  mountains  through  its  misty  volume, 
like  sea-weed  through  deep  sea.  Nevertheless 
when  the  realization  is  impossible,   bold  sym- 


282  SCULPTURE. 

bolism  is  of  the  highest  value,  and  in  religious 
art,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  even  necessary,  as 
of  the  rays  of  light  in  the  Titian  woodcut  of  St. 
Francis  before  noticed;  and  sometimes  the  at- 
tention is  directed  by  some  such  strange  form 
to  the  meaning  of  the  image,  which  may  be 
missed  if  it  remains  in  its  natural  purity  (as,  I 
suppose,  few  in  looking  at  the  Cephalus  and 
Procris  of  Turner,  note  the  sympathy  of  those 
faint  rays  that  are  just  drawing  back  and  dying 
between  the  trunks  of  the  far-off  forest,  with 
the  ebbing  life  of  the  nymph;  unless,  indeed, 
they  happen  to  recollect  the  same  sympathy 
marked  by  Shelley  in  the  Alastor);  but  the  im- 
agination is  not  shown  in  any  such  modifica- 
tions; however,  in  some  cases  they  may  be  valu- 
able (in  the  Cephalus  they  would  be  utterly  de- 
structive) and  I  note  them  merely  in  conse- 
quence of  their  peculiar  use  in  religious  art, 
presently  to  be  examined. 

The  last  mode  we  have  here  to  note,  in  which 
the  imagination  regardant  may  be  expressed  in 
art  is  exaggeration,  of  which,  as  it  is  the  vice  of 
all  bad  artists,  and  may  be  constantly  resorted 
to  without  any  warrant  of  imagination,  it  is  nec- 
essary to  note  strictly  the  admissible  limits. 

By  comparing  the  disgusting  convulsions  of 
the  Laocoon,  with  the  Elgin  Theseus,  we  may 
obtain  a  general  idea  of  the  effect  cf  the  influ- 


SCULPTURE.  283 

ence,  as  shown  by  its  absence  in  one,  and  pres- 
ence in  the  other,  of  two  works  which,  as  far  as 
artistical  merit  is  .concerned,  are  in  some  meas- 
ure parallel,  not  that  I  believe,  even  in  this  re- 
spect, the  Laocoon  justifiably  comparable  with 
the  Theseus.  I  suppose  that  no  group  has  ex- 
ercised so  pernicious  an  influence  on  art  as  this, 
a  subject  ill  chosen,  meanly  conceived  and 
unnaturally  treated,  recommended  to  imitation 
by  subtleties  of  execution  and  accumulation  of 
technical  knowledge. 

I  would  also  have  the  reader  compare  with 
the  meagre  lines  and  contemptible  tortures  of 
the  Laocoon,  the  awfulness  and  quietness  of  M. 
Angelo's  treatment  of  a  subject  in  most  respects 
similar  (the  plague  of  the  Fiery  Serpents),  but 
of  which  the  choice  was  justified  both  by  the 
place  which  the  event  holds  in  the  typical  sys- 
tem he  had  to  arrange,  and  by  the  grandeur  of 
the  plague  itself,  in  its  multitudinous  grasp,  and 
its  mystical  salvation;  sources  of  sublimity  en- 
tirely wanting  to  the  slaughter  of  the  Dardan 
priest.  It  is  good  to  see  how  his  gigantic  intel- 
lect reaches  after  repose,  and  truthfully  finds  it, 
in  the  falling  hand  of  the  near  figure,  and  in 
the  deathful  decline  of  that  whose  hands  are 
held  up  even  in  their  venomed  coldness  to  the 
cross;  and  though  irrelevant  to  our  present  pur- 
pose, it  is  well  also  to  note  how  the  grandeur  of 


284  SCULPTURE. 

this  treatment  results,  not  merely  from  choice, 
but  from  a  greater  knowledge  and  more  faithful 
rendering  of  truth.  For  whatever  knowledge  of 
the  human  frame  there  may  be  in  the  Laocoon, 
there  is  certainly  none  of  the  habits  of  serpents. 
The  fixing  of  the  snake's  head  in  the  side  of  the 
principal  figure  is  as  false  to  nature,  as  it  is  poor 
in  composition  of  line.  A  large  serpent  never 
wants  to  bite,  it  wants  to  hold,  it  seizes  there- 
fore always  where  it  can  hold  best,  by  the  ex- 
tremities or  throat,  it  seizes  once  and  for  ever, 
and  that  before  it  coils,  following  up  the  seizure 
with  the  twist  of  its  body  round  the  victim,  as 
invisibly  swift  as  the  twist  of  a  whip  lash  round 
any  hard  object  it  may  strike,  and  then  it  holds 
fast,  never  moving  the  jaws  or  the  body;  if  its 
prey  has  any  power  of  struggling  left,  it  throws 
round  another  coil,  without  quitting  the  hold 
with  the  jaws;  if  Laocoon  had  had  to  do  with 
real  serpents,  instead  of  pieces  of  tape  with 
heads  to  them,  he  would  have  been  held  still, 
and  not  allowed  to  throw  his  arms  or  legs  about. 
It  is  most  instructive  to  observe  the  accuracy  of 
Michael  Angelo  in  the  rendering  of  these  cir- 
cumstances; the  binding  of  the  arms  to  the 
body,  and  the  knotting  of  the  whole  mass  of 
agony  together,  until  we  hear  the  crashing  of  the 
bones  beneath  the  grisly  sliding  of  the  engine 
folds.     Note  also  the  expression  in  all  the  figures 


SCULPTURE.  285 

of  another  circumstance,  the  torpor  and  cold 
numbness  of  the  limbs  induced  by  the  serpent 
venom,  which,  though  justifiably  overlooked  by 
the  sculptor  of  the  Laocoon,  as  well  as  by  Virgil 
— in  consideration  of  the  rapidity  of  the  death 
by  crushing,  adds  infinitely  to  the  power  of  the 
Florentine's  conception,  and  would  have  been 
better  hinted  by  Virgil,  than  that  sickening  dis- 
tribution of  venom  on  the  garlands.  In  fact, 
Virgil  has  missed  both  of  truth  and  impressive- 
ness  every  way — the  "  morsu  depascitur  "  is  un- 
natural butchery — the  "  perfusus  veneno  "  gra- 
tuitous foulness — the  "  clamores  horrendos," 
impossible  degradation;  compare  carefully  the 
remarks  on  this  statue  in  Sir  Charles  Bell's  Es- 
say on  Expression  (third  edition,  p.  192),  where 
he  has  most  wisely  and  uncontrovertibly  de- 
prived the  statue  of  all  claim  to  expression  of 
energy  and  fortitude  of  mind,  and  shown  its 
common  and  coarse  intent  of  mere  bodily  exer- 
tion and  agony,  while  he  has  confirmed  Payne 
Knight's  just  condemnation  of  the  passage  in 
Virgil. 

If  the  reader  wishes  to  see  the  opposite  or 
imaginative  view  of  the  subject,  let  him  compare 
Winkelmann;  and  Schiller,  Letters  on  ^Esthetic 
Culture. 

Whenever,  in  monumental  work,  the  sculptor 
reaches  a  deceptive  appearance  of  life  or  death. 


286  SCULPTURE. 

or  of  concomitant  details,  he  has  gone  too  far. 
The  statue  should  be  felt  for  such,  not  look  like 
a  dead  or  sleeping  body;  it  should  not  convey 
the  impression  of  a  corpse,  nor  of  sick  and  out- 
wearied  flesh,  but  it  should  be  the  marble  image 
of  death  or  weariness.  So  the  concomitants 
should  be  distinctly  marble,  severe  and  monu- 
mental in  their  lines,  not  shroud,  not  bedclothes, 
not  actual  armor  nor  brocade,  not  a  real  soft 
pillow,  not  a  downright  hard  stuffed  mattress, 
but  the  mere  type  and  suggestion  of  these;  a 
certain  rudeness  and  incompletion  of  finish  is 
very  noble  in  all.  Not  that  they  are  to  be  un- 
natural, such  lines  as  are  given  should  be  pure 
and  true,  and  clear  of  the  hardness  and  man- 
nered rigidity  of  the  strictly  Gothic  types,  but 
lines  so  few  and  grand  as  to  appeal  to  the  imagi- 
nation only,  and  always  to  stop  short  of  realiza- 
tion. There  is  a  monument  put  up  lately  by  a 
modern  Italian  sculptor  in  one  of  the  side 
chapels  of  Santa  Croce,  the  face  fine  and  the 
execution  dexterous.  But  it  looks  as  if  the  per- 
son had  been  restless  all  night,  and  the  artist 
admitted  to  a  faithful  study  of  the  disturbed 
bedclothes  in  the  morning. 

No  herculean  form  is  spiritual,  for  it  is  degrad- 
ing the  spiritual  creature  to  suppose  it  operative 
through  impulse  of  bone  and  sinew;  its  power 


SCULPTURE.  287 

is  immaterial  and  constant,  neither  dependent 
on,  nor  developed^  by  exertion.  Generally,  it  is 
well  to  conceal  anatomical  development  as  far  as 
may  be;  even  Michael  Angelo's  anatomy  inter- 
feres with  his  divinity;  in  the  hands  of  lower 
men  the  angel  becomes  a  preparation.  How  far 
it  is  possible  to  subdue  or  generalize  the  naked 
form  I  venture  not  to  affirm,  but  I  believe  that  it 
is  best  to  conceal  it  as  far  as  may  be,  not  with 
draperies  light  and  undulating,  that  fall  in  with, 
and  exhibit  its  principal  lines,  but  with  draperies 
severe  and  linear,  such  as  were  constantly  em- 
ployed before  the  time  of  Raffaelle.  I  recollect 
no  single  instance  of  a  naked  angel  that  does 
not  look  boylike  or  childlike,  and  unspiritualized; 
even  Fra  Bartolomeo's  might  with  advantage  be 
spared  from  the  pictures  at  Lucca,  and  in  the 
hands  of  inferior  men,  the  sky  is  merely  encum- 
bered with  sprawling  infants;  those  of  Domeni- 
chino  in  the  Madonna  del  Rosario,  and  Martyr- 
dom of  St.  Agnes,  are  peculiarly  offensive,  studies 
of  bare-legged  children  howling  and  kicking  in 
volumes  of  smoke.  Confusion  seems  to  exist  in 
the  minds  of  subsequent  painters  between  Angels 
and  Cupids. 

The  sculptor  does  not  work  for  the  anatomist, 
but  for  the  common  observer  of  life  and  nature. 
Yet  the  sculptor  is  not,  for  this  reason,  permitted 
to  be  wanting  either  in  knowledge  or  expression 


2S8  SCULPTURE. 

of  anatomical  detail;  and  the  more  refined  that 
expression  can  be  rendered,  the  more  perfect  is 
his  work.  That  which,  to  the  anatomist,  is  the 
end, — is,  to  the  sculptor,  the  means.  The  former 
desires  details,  for  their  own  sake;  the  latter, 
that  by  means  of  them  he  may  kindle  his  work 
with  life,  and  stamp  it  with  beauty. 

A  colossal  statue  is  necessarily  no  more  an 
exaggeration  of  what  it  represents  than  a  minia- 
ture is  a  diminution;  it  need  not  be  a  represen- 
tation of  a  giant,  but  a  representation,  on  a  large 
scale,  of  a  man;  only  it  is  to  be  observed,  that 
as  any  plane  intersecting  the  cone  of  rays  be- 
tween us  and  the  object,  must  receive  an  image 
smaller  than  the  object;  a  small  image  is  ration- 
ally and  completely  expressive  of  a  larger  one; 
but  not  a  large  of  a  small  one.  Hence  I  think 
that  all  statues  above  the  Elgin  standard,  or 
that  of  Michael  Angelo's  Night  and  Morning, 
are,  in  a  measure,  taken  by  the  eye  for  represen- 
tations of  giants. 

Michael  Angelo  was  once  commanded  by 
Pietro  di  Medici  to  mould  a  statue  out  of  snow, 
and  he  obeyed  the  command.  I  am  glad,  and 
we  have  all  reason  to  be  glad,  that  such  a  fancy 
ever  came  into  the  mind  of  the  unworthy  prince, 
and  for  this  cause:  that  Pietro  di  Medici  then 
gave,  at  the  period  of  one  great  epoch  of  con' 


SCULPTURE.  2S9 

summate  power  in  the  arts,  the  perfect,  accurate, 
and  intensest  possible  type  of  the  greatest  error 
which  nations  and  princes  can  commit,  respect- 
ing the  power  of  genius  entrusted  to  their  guid- 
ance. You  had  there,  observe,  the  strongest 
genius  in  the  most  perfect  obedience;  capable 
of  iron  independence,  yet  wholly  submissive  to 
the  patron's  will;  at  once  the  most  highly  ac- 
complished and  the  most  original,  capable  of 
doing  as  much  as  man  could  do,  in  any  direction 
that  man  could  ask.  And  its  governor,  and 
guide,  and  patron  sets  it  to  build  a  statue  in 
snow — to  put  itself  into  the  service  of  annihila- 
tion— to  make  a  cloud  of  itself,  and  pass  away 
from  the  earth. 

Now  this,  so  precisely  and  completely  done 
by  Pietro  di  Medici,  is  what  we  are  all  doing, 
exactly  in  the  degree  in  which  we  direct  the 
genius  under  our  patronage  to  work  in  more  or 
less  perishable  materials.  So  far  as  we  induce 
painters  to  work  in  fading  colors,  or  architects 
to  build  with  imperfect  structure,  or  in  any  other 
way  consult  only  immediate  ease  and  cheapness 
in  the  production  of  what  we  want,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  provident  thought  as  to  its  perma- 
nence and  serviceableness  in  after  ages,  so  far  we 
are  forcing  our  Michael  Angelos  to  carve  in 
snow.  The  first  duty  of  the  economist  in  art  is, 
to  see  that  no  intellect  shall  thus  glitter  merely 


29O  SCULPTURE. 

in  the  manner  of  hoar-frost;  but  that  it  shall  be 
well  vitrified,  like  a  painted  window,  and  shall 
be  set  so  between  shafts  of  stone  and  bands  of 
iron,  that  it  shall  bear  the  sunshine  upon  it,  and 
send  the  sunshine  through  it  from  generation  to 
generation. 

How  are  we  to  get  our  men  of  genius:  that  is 
to  say,  by  what  means  may  we  produce  among 
us,  at  any  given  time,  the  greatest  quantity  of 
effective  art-intellect  ?  A  wide  question,  you 
say,  involving  an  account  of  all  the  best  means 
of  art  education.  Yes,  but  I  do  not  mean  to  go 
into  the  consideration  of  those;  I  want  only  to 
state  the  few  principles  which  lie  at  the  founda- 
tion of  the  matter.  Of  these,  the  first  is  that 
you  have  always  to  find  your  artist,  not  to  make 
him;  you  can't  manufacture  him,  any  more  than 
you  can  manufacture  gold.  You  can  find  him, 
and  refine  him:  you  dig  him  out  as  he  lies  nug- 
get-fashion in  the  mountain-stream;  you  bring 
him  home;  and  you  make  him  into  current  coin, 
or  household  plate,  but  not  one  grain  of  him  can 
you  originally  produce.  A  certain  quantity  of 
art-intellect  is  born  annually  in  every  nation, 
greater  or  less  according  to  the  nature  and  cul- 
tivation of  the  nation,  or  race  of  men;  but  a 
perfectly  fixed  quantity  annually,  not  increasable 
by  one  grain.  You  may  lose  it,  or  you  may 
gather  it;  you  may  let  it  lie  loose  in  the  ravine, 


SCULPTURE.  29I 

and  buried  in  the  sands,  or  you  may  make  kings' 
thrones  of  it,  and  overlay  temple  gates  with  it, 
as  you  choose;  but  the  best  you  can  do  with  it  is 
always  merely  sifting,  melting,  hammering,  purify- 
ing— never  creating.  And  there  is  another  thing 
notable  about  this  artistical  gold;  not  only  is  it 
limited  in  quantity,  but  in  use.  You  need  not 
make  thrones  or  golden  gates  with  it  unless  you 
like,  but  assuredly  you  can't  do  anything  else 
with  it.  You  can't  make  knives  of  it,  nor  ar- 
mor, nor  railroads.  The  gold  won't  cut  you, 
and  it  won't  carry  you;  put  it  to  a  mechanical 
use,  and  you  destroy  it  at  once.  It  is  quite  true 
that  in  the  greatest  artists,  their  proper,  artistical 
faculty  is  united  with  every  other;  and  you  may 
make  use  of  the  other  faculties,  and  let  the  ar- 
tistical one  lie  dormant.  For  aught  I  know 
there  may  be  two  or  three  Leonardo  da  Vincis 
employed  at  this  moment  in  your  harbors  and 
railroads:  but  you  are  not  employing  their  Leon- 
ardesque  or  golden  faculty  there,  you  are  only 
oppressing  and  destroying  it.  And  the  artistical 
gift  in  average  men  is  not  joined  with  others; 
your  born  painter,  if  you  don't  make  a  painter 
of  him,  won't  be  a  first-rate  merchant,  or  lawyer; 
at  all  events,  whatever  he  turns  out,  his  own  spe- 
cial gift  is  unemployed  by  you;  and  in  no  wise 
helps  him  in  that  other  business.  So  here  you 
have  a  certain  quantity  of  a  particular  sort  of  in- 


292  SCULPTURE. 

telligence,  produced  for  you  annually  by  provi- 
dential laws,  which  you  can  only  make  use  of  by 
setting  it  to  its  own  proper  work,  and  which  any 
attempt  to  use  otherwise  involves  the  dead  loss 
of  so  much  human  energy. 

I  believe  that  much  of  the  best  artistical  in- 
tellect is  daily  lost  in  other  avocations.  Gen- 
erally, the  temper  which  would  make  an  admir- 
able artist  is  humble  and  observant,  capable  of 
taking  much  interest  in  little  things,  and  of  en* 
tertaining  itself  pleasantly  in  the  dullest  circum- 
stances. Suppose,  added  to  these  characters,  a 
steady  conscientiousness  which  seeks  to  do  its 
duty  wherever  it  may  be  placed,  and  the  power, 
denied  to  few  artistical  minds,  of  ingenious  in- 
vention in  almost  any  practical  department  of 
human  skill,  and  it  can  hardly  be  doubted  that 
the  very  humility  and  conscientiousness  which 
would  have  perfected  the  painter,  have  in  many 
instances  prevented  his  becoming  one;  and  that 
in  the  quiet  life  of  our  steady  craftsmen — saga- 
cious manufacturers,  and  uncomplaining  clerks — 
there  may  frequently  be  concealed  more  genius 
than  ever  is  raised  to  the  direction  of  our  public 
works,  or  to  be  the  mark  of  our  public  praises. 

Ornamentation  is  the  principal  part  of  archi- 
tecture,  considered  as  a  subject  of  fine  art. 
Now  observe.     It  will  at  once  follow  from  this 


SCULPTURE.  293 

principle,  that  a  great  architect  must  be  a  great 
sculptor  or  painter. 

This  is  a  universal  law.  No  person  who  is 
not  a  great  sculptor  or  painter  can  be  an  archi- 
tect. If  he  is  not  a  sculptor  or  painter,  he  can 
only  be  a  builder.  The  three  greatest  architects 
hitherto  known  in  the  world  were  Phidias,  Giotto, 
and  Michael  Angelo;  with  all  of  whom,  archi- 
tecture was  only  their  play,  sculpture  and  paint- 
ing their  work.  All  great  works  of  architecture 
in  existence  are  either  the  work  of  single  sculp- 
tors or  painters,  or  of  societies  of  sculptors  and 
painters,  acting  collectively  for  a  series  of  years. 
A  Gothic  cathedral  is  properly  to  be  defined 
as  a  piece  of  the  most  magnificent  associative 
sculpture,  arranged  on  the  noblest  principles  of 
building,  for  the  service  and  delight  of  multi- 
tudes; and  the  proper  definition  of  architecture, 
as  distinguished  from  sculpture,  is  merely  "  the 
art  of  designing  sculpture  for  a  particular  place, 
and  placing  it  there  on  the  best  principles  of 
building." 

Hence  it  clearly  follows,  that  in  modern  days 
we  have  no  architects.  The  term  "  architecture  " 
is  not  so  much  as  understood  by  us.  I  am  very 
sorry  to  be  compelled  to  the  discourtesy  of  stat- 
ing this  fact,  but  a  fact  it  is,  and  a  fact  which  it 
is  necessary  to  state  strongly. 


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